Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction

April 2013

Take a Thrill Ride with Joshua Graham Jeremy Robinson Adam Baker Andrew Gross T. Jefferson Parker 2012 Contest Winners Announced

Hugh Howey A Tale of Success John Gilstrap Meet Joins Anthony J. Franze Charles Colyott On Writing A NEW VOICE

From the Editor C r e di t s John Raab President & Chairman Ghosts, vampires, zombies, and demons: Shannon Raab What do they have in common? Creative Director All are popular in our writing today. Why do we find them so fascinating, since it seems that we Romaine Reeves CFO are afraid of them? I know that Stephenie Meyer made vampires more romantic than scary. Her Starr Gardinier Reina Executive Editor depiction of vampires was more about fueling teenage fantasy than about portraying them in Jim Thomsen accordance with fictional history. But all of them Copy Editor feed off the emotions of the living, and even Contributors though many people feel they don’t exist, and that would be why we do find them Donald Allen Kirch fascinating. Anything that is part of the unknown, including aliens and spirits—we Mark P. Sadler Susan Santangelo simply can’t get enough of hearing about them. DJ Weaver CK Webb But what is the next big thing? At any given time you find a ghost story or ghost hunt Kiki Howell on TV. Demons are all over the horror genre and now becoming a lot more mainstream. Kaye George Weldon Burge Vampires have been around before Dracula and will continue to be around. The young Ashley Wintters adult genre is the fastest-growing genre in books. Adults and children are flocking to Scott Pearson D.P. Lyle M.D. buy these books. Most of the popular titles have at least one of the paranormal entities Claudia Mosley above. Christopher Nadeau Kathleen Heady So, I have to ask, is the paranormal the new police book? Does a thriller or suspense Stephen Brayton book have to have some sort of paranormal activity, along with some type of romance Brian Blocker Andrew MacRae to be popular? My answer might surprise you, but I don’t think so. I think that all Val Conrad books and genres go through fads. Remember “The Da Vinci Code” by Dan Brown? Laura Alden Melissa Dalton Historical thrillers were all the rage—just ask Clive Cussler and Steve Berry, who saw Elliott Capon their popularity skyrocket because that genre was all over the place. Hollywood does J.M. LeDuc Holly Price the same thing by putting out the same type of movies; heck, Disney and Dreamworks Kari Wainwright for a couple of years would basically put out the same movie, just change the voices and David Ingram Bill Craig the title. Jodi Hanson As an author, you shouldn’t get caught up in the fads of readers, because they end as Amy Lignor Susan May fast as they came in. If you are writing a book with vampires, zombies, or demons, stop. J.S. McCormick You are too late to probably make a mark in these saturated markets. Ghosts, however, Kestrel T. Andersen Cassandra McNeil will always be popular, because they have proven through time that they continue to Jenny Hilborne dazzle readers. Reviews make readers aware of what’s out Tanya Contois Sharon Salonen there, but sales figures make authors aware. Anthony J. Franze Most authors should stay with what they are good at, Jeanine Elizalde Kristin Centorcelli which could be incorporating a little of the paranormal Jerry Zavada if that is something new to them, but not jump in head Customer Service and first and change their style all at once. Keep to your Subscriptions: For 24/7 service, please use our website, strengths and write the best books you can, because in www.suspensemagazine.com or write to: the end what you put on the page is a little piece of you. SUSPENSE MAGAZINE at 26500 Agoura Road, #102-474 Just don’t chop off your arm or leg. Calabasas, CA 91302 Suspense Magazine does not share our magazine subscriber list to third-party John Raab companies. CEO/Publisher Photographer: http://mleighs.deviantart.com  Rates: $24.00 (Electronic Subscrip- Suspense Magazine Model: Wes Ykema tion) per year. All foreign subscrip- “Reviews within this magazine are the opinions of the individual reviewers and are provided solely to provide readers assistance tions must be payable in U.S. funds. in determining another's thoughts on the book under discussion and shall not be interpreted as professional advice or the opin- ion of any other than the individual reviewer. The following reviewers who may appear in this magazine are also individual cli- ents of Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine: Mark P. Sadler, Starr Gardinier Reina, Ashley Dawn (Wintters), DJ Weaver, CK Webb, Elliott Capon, J.M. LeDuc, and Amy Lignor.” SuspenseMagazine.com 1 CONTENT Su sp e n se M ag a z i n e April 2013 / Vol. 046

Excerpt of “Crucifying Angels” By P.I. Barrington ...... 3

Lisa Gardner on Conquering the Dreaded Synopsis: Part Three...... 5

A New Voice: An Interview with Charles Colyott by Weldon Burge...... 8

Rules of Fiction with John Gilstrap By Anthony J. Franze...... 10 Terri Ann Armstrong Short Story Contest Winner Announcement...... 13

We Never Speak About It By James Todd...... 14

What Lies Beyond By Patrick Gallogly ...... 20

No Reservations Required By Laura Kathryn Rogers ...... 23 Inside the Pages: Suspense Magazine Book Reviews...... 31 Suspense Magazine Movie Reviews...... 38 Featured Artist: Paulina Januszek ...... 40

Hugh Howey: A Tale of Success By Susan May...... 44

Spell By Sean Hunter...... 47

Easy Mark By I.R. Griffith...... 56

Star-Crossed By Tim Smith...... 65

Stranger Than Fiction: An Unusual ShroudBy Donald Allen Kirch ...... 74

Interview with a Monster: The Dracula FileBy Thomas Scopel...... 83 Special Preview from Author P.I. Barrington

Crucifying Angel Book One: Future Imperfect

“Don’t make me get a warrant,” he told Ernesto Calderon as they both stood in the surveillance bay. Alfonso was gone for the day and Calderon drew the swing shift. “I really don’t think you want Garcia dragged away from his wife at this late hour. All you have to do is make me a copy of the footage I looked at the other day.” Ernesto looked askance at Gavin, as if the detective wore a set of horns. He moved along the inside of the monitor station backing away and running a hand along the underside of the console. “I advise against that.” Gavin reached into his holster. “I can put you down before your fingers touch the button. Make me the copy.” “What format?” Ernesto played for time. “All of them. And please put a rush on it.” He smiled and pointed his tricked out Glock at the man. “I have a deadline to meet. One I cannot miss.” Ernesto did as he was told and Gavin knew Calderon would hit the panic button as soon as Gavin walked out the door. He prevented that by walking around and shooting the wiring to shreds. “Thank you, Ernesto,” Gavin told him as he took the chip, stick, and a cylinder from him. “You have my permission to blame everything on me. I should think you’d make a point of that to Garcia. Again, thanks.” He backed out the door in case Ernesto possessed any weapons and all the way to the elevators. His bio-identification still held and he smashed a finger against the express button that shot him to the casino floor. He broke into a run out the front doors and leaped into the patrol car as the on-duty security force exploded out the front doors of the casino. The unit’s tires slammed down onto the pavement under Gavin’s foot and fishtailed as it flew off the premises and down the highway. He got a last glimpse of them taking aim and popping off a few rounds before they scattered like ants without a pheromone trail.

*****

Alejandro Jesus Garcia slammed down the phone in his penthouse bedroom “I am not happy,” he announced to the group of guards who stood just inside the penthouse suite’s front doors. Garcia untied the silk belt at the waist of his robe and tugged on a shirt. “Bring Calderon to my office. I’ll deal with him there. Sergeant, stay with me. We will discuss how to handle this…breach of security on the way down.” Garcia buttoned the collar of a newly pressed shirt and then buttoned the cuffs. He picked up his gun in its holster and slung it over his shoulder, finally pulling a jacket over it all. The clock on the wall read 10:30 p.m. but no one looked at it. The time was of no concern to anyone in these matters — matters that they must now take into their own hands and resolve. Garcia arrived at his office at exactly 10:39 p.m. and looked into the pale face of Ernesto Raul Calderon without pity. They

SuspenseMagazine.com 3 had extracted the details of Gavin’s visit and his possession of the footage of the Amazon’s casino floor and rooms from Calderon and now Garcia made his decision. “Take him out,” he told the mini-troop of soldiers. “Have him write a note of suicide and then shoot him. Make it look like he pulled the trigger himself. Get him away from my sight.” Calderon barely squeaked out a faint protest as they lifted him off the floor and carried him by the armpits out of the office. The terrified expression never left his face. “Now.” Garcia turned to the rest of his staff. “We will deal with this Anglo detective and his girlfriend. I want my top officers on this by the break of day. There will be no more tolerance of this game.” He lifted the receiver of the phone. “Not only will I not tolerate this interference, He will not tolerate it either. As it is, we will have to have a face-to-face meeting tonight. Yes, Elena? Have the car brought round to the front. Yes, immediately,” Garcia snapped as he dropped the phone receiver back down and looked into the faces of his contingent of guards. Not one of them looked at ease. “Come! We go.” He picked up his jacket again, flung it over a shoulder and shoved his arm into the sleeve. He adjusted the holster as he shoved in the other arm. Then he led the mini-squadron toward the elevator and down through the casino out into the waiting limousine.

*****

“What do you want with me so late?” Garcia bowed low. “Please forgive the intrusion, Jefe. There has been a… breach of security at the Amazon.” “That is for you to deal with, Alejandro. It is your job.” “Yes, Jefe, and I have already taken care of the employee.” “So?” Garcia hesitated, knowing that even a momentary hesitation could cost him his very life. He bowed even lower. “So, it is not a minor breach, Jefe. Someone has gotten hold of a security tape — a very important section of footage. He has it in his possession.” “He?” the deep and frightening voice asked, curious. “Yes. It is a police officer, Jefe. He is a homicide detective and—” “The new detective? A man from Britain?” Garcia paused in confusion. How had the boss, the Jefe, learned of this particular man? Alejandro Garcia rocked back and forth a moment, contemplating the possible consequences of his lapse in absolute control over the dominion of The Amazon. “Yes, Jefe. A Briton.” Garcia’s voice was a whisper. “He has already come to my attention, Alejandro.” TheJefe’s voice contained no trace of anger. Garcia held his breath. “I have already put contingency plans into place to… deal with him. He will soon be out of the way—completely, permanently. As will his woman partner.” Garcia let out a tiny breath of relief. “However, Alejandro, I cannot let this moment of weakness on your part go unpunished.” The voice was now terrifying in its total lack of emotion. “You may choose your punishment: the death of your wife or the death of your daughter. Which will it be?” “Jefe—” “Which will it be, Alejandro?” “Jefe, I—I cannot—” “Then you have already chosen, Alejandro. Take him to his family. His…ex-family.” A faint trace of a satisfied smile could be heard in the Jefe’s voice. Alejandro Garcia screamed in his own mind. He did not know whether it could be heard or not and it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but the grey matter of his wife’s and daughter’s brains spattered across the living room walls of his penthouse suite. He never stopped screaming. Not until he took his last breath on Earth many, many years later. ■

After a long detour through the entertainment industry, P.I. Barrington has returned to her roots as a fiction author. Among her careers she counts journalism and radio air talent. She lives in Southern California where she watches the (semi-wild) horses grazing in the hills behind her house. She can be contacted via email: [email protected] and loves to hear from read- ers. Learn more about P.I. Barrington at http://thewordmistresses.com.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 4 Conquering the Dreaded Synopsis: A Series of Ten Lectures By Lisa Gardner Press Photo Credit: Philbrick Photography

This continues this series of ten lectures, which started with the first installment, “Introduction.” Lecture Three: Synopsis Overview

In the next few lectures, we are going to discuss two types of synopses: the short synopsis and the long synopsis. Generally, a short, two- to three-page synopsis is included with your query letter. If the publisher likes this submission, the editor will request a longer proposal, perhaps the first three chapters of your work and a long, ten- to fifteen-page synopsis. As always, this can vary from house to house, so please follow the guidelines of your target publisher. The goal of a synopsis is to provide a bare-bones sketch of your full manuscript. Think setup, major developments, and resolution. Another approach is to cover internal conflict, external conflict, black moment (when hopefully internal and external conflict come to a head) and resolution. Either way, youmust give the resolution, so if you don’t know the ending of your book, think of one. In addition to providing an overview of your story, a synopsis has the additional burden of showing the flavor of your writing. Like the book blurb in the query letter, you want to reveal your voice in this short document. Funny books should have funny synopses. Dark books should have dark synopses (use lots of foreshadowing, bold statements, etc.). Basically you have to cover the entire 300-page manuscript in three to ten pages while sounding energetic, tight, and evocative. Piece of cake, right? Let’s start with the basics and work our way from there. Format:

Double-spaced 1-inch margins Standard font

SuspenseMagazine.com 5 Header on every page: Book title upper left corner, last name and page number upper right corner (e.g., The Perfect Husband Gardner Page XX) Pointers:

Start bold. Many of us sweat the opening line of our book. Do the same for your synopsis. Don’t start with: “Tom Riley is a thirty four year old engineer with blue eyes and black hair.” That’s bland. Better: “Tom Riley possessed the kind of smile that made women swoon. He knew it. He used it. He always got his way. Until he met Faith Honeywell.” Or more evocative: “Sara Smith knew she was truly in trouble the moment she went for her gun—and it was no longer in the cookie jar.” Deb Smith gets credit for the best opening line of all time when she begins “A Place to Call Home” with “It started the year I performed as a tap-dancing leprechaun at the St. Patrick’s Day carnival and Roanie Sullivan threatened to cut my cousin Carlton’s throat with a rusty pocketknife.” That’s the perfect kind of line to use to start a synopsis as well. Grab the editor’s attention first, then summarize the story.

Stay focused. In a three-page synopsis, you don’t have room for extraneous details. Don’t include secondary plots or characters unless they are essential to understanding the resolution. Don’t use multiple points of view (POVs), even if they’re present in the novel. Remember, KISS….

Write in present tense. It’s more effective as it provides a sense of urgency.

Show, don’t tell. Too many writers try to communicate their story by resorting to over-hyped statements such as “Faster that SPEED, harder than DIE HARD.” Even phrases such as, “in this roller coaster suspense ride,” will get you into trouble as the editor reads the next three pages thinking: Prove it to me. Trust me, you don’t want to go there. If your book is fast-paced, don’t say it, but show it through a rapid-fire plot. If you’re describing the story, you’ve gotten off track.

Don’t resort to empty questions. “Will they fall in love? Will she live to see tomorrow?” This is another editorial pet peeve. For one thing, you have to give that answer, so you’re wasting valuable space. Plus, these sentences (and the hyped statements given above) yank an editor out of the story. They are “author intrusive.” Instead of letting the story speak for itself, you are speaking for it.

Proofread thoroughly. Many editors make it a policy not to continue reading after the third typo. Ouch!

Sweat the opening three paragraphs. Most editors conduct a “three-paragraph” test. If you haven’t grabbed their interest by then, they won’t read on. A strong opening line helps. Then you want a quick, tight overview of heroine/hero and conflict. If an editor still doesn’t know what your book is about by paragraph four, you are in trouble. Conclusion:

None of this is easy, which is why we’re going to spend several lectures on the nuts and bolts of drafting a great short synopsis. First, we’ll look at two examples of highly effective synopses. Then we’ll look at how to write a great opening, then how to determine the relevant story details to include in the main body. Finally, I’ll provide two generic outlines of the short synopsis.

Next month: two best-in-class examples. ■

Lisa Gardner, a #1 New York Times crime thriller novelist, began her career in food service, but after catching her hair on fire numerous times, she took the hint and focused on writing instead. A self-described research junkie, her work as a research analyst for an international consulting firm parlayed her interest in police procedure, cutting edge forensics, and twisted plots into a streak of internationally bestselling suspense novels, including her most recent release, “Touch & Go.” With over twenty-two million books in print, Lisa is published in thirty countries. Her success crosses into the small screen with four of her novels becoming movies and personal appearances on television shows. Lisa lives in New Hampshire with her auto-racing husband and black-diamond skiing daughter. She spends her days writing in her loft with two barky shelties and one silly puppy.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 6

A New Voice CHARLES COLYOTT

Interview By Weldon Burge Press Photo Credit: Provided by Author Charles Colyott lives on a farm in the middle of nowhere (Southern Illinois) with his wife, daughters, cats, and a herd of llamas and alpacas. He is surrounded by so much cuteness that it’s difficult for him to develop any street cred as a dark and gritty horror writer. Nevertheless, he has appeared in “Read by Dawn II”; Withersin magazine; “Terrible Beauty Fearful Symmetry”; “Horror Library” Volumes III, IV, and V; and the “Zippered Flesh” and “Uncommon Assassins” anthologies from Smart Rhino Publications. His mystery novels, “Changes” and “Pressure Point,” focus on Colyott’s martial-arts-savvy acupuncturist protagonist, Randall Lee. Colyott took some time away from his busy schedule to answer a few questions for us.

Weldon Burge (W.B.): Let’s get the geek question out of the way first. Zombie or robot apocalypse?

Charles Colyott (C.C.): Zombies, of course! I feel like we’d have a better chance against them…unless we’re talking the almost indestructible ones from Return of the Living Dead, or the really awful ones from Brian Keene’s “The Rising.” Then we’re just screwed.

W.B.: And one other nagging question: Why llamas and alpacas instead of cows and goats? Can you even milk a llama? And why would you want to? (OK, that was three questions.)

C.C.: My wife and I just sort of fell in love with alpacas before we even knew what they were. I liked the fact that we didn’t have to use them in any way… No killing, no milking, etc. We just cut their hair once a year (something which must be done anyway).

I imagine it is possible to milk one…but I can’t fathom why anyone would want to. Our llamas act as guards for our alpacas, and they take their job pretty seriously.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 8 “Charles Colyott is a fresh and bold new voice on the mystery scene. Just when you think it has all been done before, here comes Randall Lee.” “ ”

W.B.: Chinese culture, especially martial arts, flavors the —Scott Nicholson, author of Liquid Fear Randall Lee novels. How much of this is pulled from your C.C.: I think the dark side is always there, but it’s a matter of past experience, how much from research? degree. There’s definitely some dark stuff in the Randall Lee books (“Pressure Point,” especially), but that darkness isn’t C.C.: I do have to do a fair amount of research for certain stuff, meant to be the focus. Music is what helps me to set a tone, but a lot of it comes from experience, too. I’m a mega-nerd for though. I typically make little “soundtrack” playlists to help get Chinese culture. I wanted to learn Tai Chi when I was a kid, a feel for a story. but there was no one around us who taught the real stuff at that time. I really wanted to learn martial arts, though, so I W.B.: In one sentence, what is the future of publishing? ended up studying (over quite a span of years) other styles… some Aikijiujitsu, Kempo, Capoeira, Lohan gung fu, and C.C.: I don’t know if anyone knows, really, but I’m going to do Aikido before finally finding my Tai Chi teacher. my best to be part of it.

W.B.: How much of Randall Lee is actually Charles Colyott? W.B.: Which author has had the most influence on your own writing? C.C.: Oh, not too much (I hope)! When I was writing “Changes,” I wanted to show how this guy learns how to live again after a C.C.: That’s a tough one. I met Neil Gaiman when I was about pretty horrible tragedy. I think we have a pretty similar sense of 17, and he really encouraged me to write. I’ll never forget that. humor, but I’m nowhere near as tough as Randall! And while In horror, Stephen King (of course), John Skipp, Jack Ketchum, I know a few things about Tai Chi, I don’t really know much Ray Garton, Rick Hautala…a bunch of people! Mystery is about acupuncture…that’s one of those areas that I have to easy, though. Robert B. Parker. I read something like twenty research. Spencer novels over the course of a summer because Parker’s style is just awesome. W.B.: The Lee novels are also liberally seasoned with humor, and it seems like you have fun writing the books. Is the W.B.: What are you reading now? humor just natural to your writing, or is it a planned writing strategy? C.C.: I tend to juggle several at a time. “The Hunter” by Richard Stark, “Flood” by Andrew Vachss (re-reading this one), C.C.: It was definitely part of the plan. I wrote almost exclusively “Galilee” by Clive Barker, and “Shada” by Douglas Adams and horror (and pretty dark horror at that) for a few years, and Gareth Roberts. I decided that I wanted to write something a little bit more mainstream, something that my family would actually read W.B.: So, what’s your next writing project? A new Randall without questioning my sanity…. Lee novel?

W.B.: I think horror and humor are kissing cousins. Your C.C.: Yep! “Jianghu,” the third book in the series, which is thoughts? turning out to be the darkest and coolest one yet. I’m also collaborating with the super awesome Glen Krisch on a horror C.C.: Definitely. And in the hands of a really great writer like novel and working on the second book in my dark fantasy Jeff Strand, those cousins get downright incestuous. series.

W.B.: The short stories you’ve written for the Smart Rhino Thanks, Charles, for a great interview, and good luck anthologies, especially for the “Zippered Flesh” books, are with your future writing endeavors! To learn more about this absolutely creepy and much darker in tone than the Randall author, visit his website at: http://charlescolyott.wordpress. Lee books. Do you harness a different mood when writing com. ■ horror? Go to the “dark side,” so to speak?

SuspenseMagazine.com 9 America's Favorite Suspense Authors On the Rules of Fiction John's Run: John Gilstrap on Writing By Anthony J. Franze Photo Credit: Kensington Publishing In this series, author Anthony J. Franze interviews other suspense writers about their views on “the rules” of fiction. For the next few months, Anthony will profile authors who are teaching at this summer’s CraftFest, the International Thriller Writers’ writing school held during the organization’s annual ThrillerFest conference. This month, New York Times bestselling author John Gilstrap shares his advice.

In the mid-1990s, John Gilstrap published his breakthrough thriller, “Nathan’s Run.” Today, nearly twenty years and more than a dozen acclaimed books later—including the brilliant “Damage Control”—Gilstrap’s views on the “rules” of writing haven’t changed much:

“There are no rules.”

That, of course, could make for an exceptionally short segment in this series. But when we spoke recently, Gilstrap explained that what he means is that writers need to stop obsessing about someone else’s version of “the rules.” Instead, he said, “Sit down and write—tell the story in the voice that you’d tell it to a friend sitting at your dining room table. Try to capture that voice on the page without worrying about the rules.” Gilstrap said that it

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 10 was not until he realized this (after writing three novels that he never submitted for publication) that he was ready to write “Nathan’s Run.” His caveats about the rules aside, Gilstrap does believe there are good “suggestions” about writing that newer scribes should consider. He shared a few he’s learned during his long career:

“Get To It.” Gilstrap said that for thrillers, the writer needs to “get to it”—get to the conflict or action in each scene as quickly as possible. This is Gilstrap’s version of Hitchcock’s rule for storytelling: “Drama is life with the dull parts left out.” He described a recent example of reading a beautifully written manuscript where the scene involved terrorists bursting into a shopping mall and taking hostages. “The first seven pages of the scene described the color of the female protagonist’s shoes, her coffee order, what she was reading on her laptop, and other irrelevant details. It wasn’t until page eight that we met the terrorists. The prose was exceptional, but the story suffered because the writer buried the lead.” Write to the middle—bring in those terrorists on page one or two—and cut out the extraneous stuff.

Kill Unneeded Characters. One exercise Gilstrap conducts is to ask whether each character he’s introduced is needed to move the story forward. “If they don’t have enough to do, they shouldn’t be characters.” If the character appears only once or twice or offers only a small piece of information needed to move the story along, consider whether another character can carry the load. If so, remove the unneeded character from the story. “In ‘Lord of the Flies’ William Golding did this masterfully. He managed to create a crowd of kids while focusing really on only a couple essential characters.”

Know the Beginning and End, Outline the Middle. Gilstrap acknowledged that authors differ on whether to outline before writing. Some authors draft outlines that go on for hundreds of pages, others write by the seat of their pants. Gilstrap’s preference is to know the beginning and end of the story, but loosely outline the middle. “If you don’t know the beginning and end, you don’t know where you’re writing to. I treat the story as a three-act structure with the greatest challenge being the second act, so I spend more time outlining the middle.” This is one where Gilstrap again urged writers to do what works for them.

Eliminate Passive Voice. I asked Gilstrap to identify the one problem he sees most often in manuscripts of newer writers. He didn’t hesitate: passive voice. “This is basic advice, I know. But it is also the most common issue I see. Writers should scour their manuscripts to eliminate passive voice. Active voice speeds the pace and makes the fear, action, and suspense more vivid for the reader.”

Listen to Feedback. “I’ve never had a case where receiving an editor’s notes is fun.” At the same time, Gilstrap said he’s never had a book that didn’t benefit from those notes. L“ isten to feedback from those who take the time to read your manuscript, including writing instructors, your family and friends, and your agent.” He’s often astonished that many newer writers “are so in love with their own talent that they take any feedback as the reader not ‘getting it.’”

SuspenseMagazine.com 11 Limit Profanity. Tongue planted firmly in cheek, Gilstrap said, “I’m pretty [expletive] profane and I [expletive] think profanity is [expletive] fine when I’m talking to my friends. I worked at a [expletive] fire department, so it doesn’t bother me.” But he learned that profanity does bother his readers. He’s heard from many of them about it. So, a few years ago he decided to stop using profanity in his work. “My job as a writer is to entertain. Profanity was distracting from that, so I stopped—well, mostly stopped. I don’t think any of my characters or stories have suffered from the lack of four-letter words.”

Deconstruct a Favorite Novel. Gilstrap personally has never found how-to writing guides useful, though he did find some inspiration in the personal anecdotes in Steven King’s “On Writing.” Gilstrap thinks a more useful exercise is reading and analyzing a favorite thriller. “I think ‘The Day of the Jackal’ is the perfect thriller. I read it several times and I started to see how Forsyth built suspense by his pacing, his chapter breaks, his character introductions. It was then that I ‘got it.’ I’m not saying copy someone else’s work, but for me studying a favorite novel really helped me develop my understanding of how to craft a thriller.” Here, Gilstrap is not alone. In January’s article in this series, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child offered similar advice. (Suspense, Jan. 2013/Vol. 042).

While these suggestions have worked for him, Gilstrap said that the best advice he can give to new writers is that few writing careers follow a straight line. Before you’ve sold your first novel, rejection is more common than not. And after you’ve had a little success, “you’re still always one departing editor or one bad book away from failure.” It is easy to succumb to discouragement, but remember: “Failure has to be declared by the writer, it cannot be inflicted by a third party. As long as you keep writing, you’re always in the game.” ■

Anthony J. Franze is a lawyer in the Appellate and Supreme Court practice of a major Washington, D.C. law firm and the author of the debut legal thriller, “The Last Justice.” In addition to his writing and law practice, he is an adjunct professor of law, has been a commentator for Bloomberg, the National Law Journal and other news outlets, and is a features editor for the Big Thrill magazine. Anthony lives in the D.C. area with his wife and three children. Learn more about Anthony at http://www. anthonyfranzebooks.com/ By Suspense Magazine As another year goes by, and another contest is put to bed, we are amazed by the quality of short stories that are submitted. From story to story, we don’t know what we will receive. And from story to story, we are entertained, amused, scared, and/or mystified. To all of you who submitted, thank you for allowing us and your readers the ability to get lost in another world. 2012 made 2011 look like we had just started our contest, when in fact, it was our fourth year running. Among the stories, we found fantasy, paranormal, mystery, suspense, horror, thriller, and romantic suspense. We are thrilled to announce the number one story this year is Tim Smith’s Star-Crossed. Second place goes to I. R. Griffith’s Easy Mark, and in Third Place is Sean Hunter’s Spell. The quality of the stories was superb and therefore, we give to you three honorable mentions. It was very difficult again this year to choose the three top winners and the honorable mentions. In no particular order, the honorable mentions are: No Reservations Required by Laura Katherine Rogers, We Never Speak About It by James Todd, and What Lies Beyond by Patrick Gallogly. If there were only many more pages to the magazine, we would place almost all the stories we receive. Alas, we cannot. We’d like to thank each and every person that submitted in 2012 for entering and we hope you continue to do so. Our review team is hard at work already for the 2013 Terri Ann Armstrong Short Story Contest and we want you to be a part of it. The contest is the same as always, you have until December 31, 2013 to submit, all stories must be in the body of the email, no attachments will be opened and all sub- missions must be between 1,500 and 5,000 words in length. Now, put your feet up, relax and enjoy reading the winners of 2012. ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 13 We Never Speak About It By James Todd e never speak about what happened, because when quicken and I want to say something. Wyou talk about something you can make it real—even Night falls hard by the time we trundle up the rutted a nightmare—a thing so raw that it still throbs in my head mountain road. The cold stare of a full moon looms overhead, like a cracked tooth. revealing a gauntlet of tall, black pines that compress along “You okay?” My dad studies me from across the table, our way, leaning over the road as if to embrace us, welcome his sullen face darkened beneath the dim light. A lifetime of us into the blackest part of their world. dread and worry etch his once youthful face and I think he When I glance in the rearview mirror, a curious vortex of looks a hundred years old…and maybe he is. black dust arises in our wake, like a dust devil that seems to Is that how I look to him? I wonder. tail the car over miles of dirt road. The darkness knows we’re “I’m okay,” I say under my breath. coming, and I feel a hole deepen in my gut. “More coffee, honey?” the old waitress asks with pot in “On the right,” Dad murmurs, pointing a shaky finger. hand, waiting to ruin Dad’s perfectly sweetened mug. She The old cabin. My bones thrum like a tuning fork, grins through a set of choppers that hadn’t seen a dentist resonant to some haunting melody I can’t get out of my head. since Desert Storm. How many times has this place invaded my dreams or have I “No thanks,” he says, as he shields his cup. jumped from bed in pajamas damp with sweat? I poke at my food thinking how long it’s been since Dad turns off the engine, his strained fingers still that first nightmare, and I count the years, the months, the clutching the wheel as if he’s afraid to let go. “This was your seconds. doctor’s idea, not mine,” he says, and I know it’s as close to an Neither of us touches our meal. It isn’t food crowding apology as I’ll get. our thoughts, but what’s waiting for us—for me—at the end He doesn’t want to be here anymore than I, but I sense of the mountain road. he’s at the end of his rope. One more tug… Dad stiffens his posture, takes a deep breath, “Guess we I feel the pain in his words, but there’s little I can do or should be going. Got another hour ahead of us.” He doesn’t say. He’s been both mom and dad to me for the past five years, look at me when he speaks. a burden too big for any father to shoulder. “I don’t want to go,” I nearly shout, stabbing my meatloaf, He sits for a few seconds longer, regards the cabin—that the tines of my fork rattling the plate. two-story mausoleum still waiting for more occupants it A few patrons turn and stare. seems. Still hungry, I guess. Dad grabs my hand, “Take it easy, kiddo,” he says, in a He sighs like a leaky tire, then says, “Guess we should go forced whisper. in,” and climbs out of the car. He sees me grimace from his tight grip and quickly lets I was ten when we came up here for a summer vacation. go. Rent was cheap, a steal, I remember Dad saying. In the 20s, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” But his voice trails off. He Chicago gangsters used the two-story getaway as a hideout. looks around, nervous, rakes his fingertips through his hair. Rumors abounded that some unfortunate guests checked in “I’m running out of ideas,” he says. I hear the desperation in but, never checked out. Hotel California. his voice. “I don’t know how much more I can take.” Few people ever rented the old place due to its Dad’s never said it, but I believe he has nightmares too. reputation, but money was tight for Dad; so we took what I see it in his face sometimes, the vacant look in his eyes, we could get. Mom’s medical bills were mounting. She’d been the way he wrings his hands as if he’s anticipating something under a doctor’s care since my birth. Something to do with bad. I know that feeling, too—the nights when something postpartum depression, Dad said. We all needed the break, taps on my windowsill or when I’ve barred an unlocked door I guess. while something pushes on the other side. I feel my pulse I got sick a year before our vacation—real sick; serious

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 14 stomach problems that seemed to ebb and flow, baffling the “Afraid?” a voice speaks inside me. doctors. I’m not afraid. And so Dad had two sick people on his hands to care for, “Then I double dare you,” the voice replies. “Go ahead, feed, worry about. That’s when I noticed his smile missing. take a peek. See what’s out there at three a.m. That is, of It never returned. He got real old that first year, right after I course…unless you’re scared. Are you scared, boy?” became ill. I shake my head. I turn to the window and things I feel old memories suddenly flood my mind, but it’s late suddenly get quiet. No crickets chirping, no woodpeckers and I unpack. I undress for bed. typing evil tales in the trees. Even the wind holds its breath. Dad’s already upstairs, no doubt sleeping or pretending I inch forward, my chest tightening as I peer out. My to sleep. I stand in the downstairs bedroom, on the spot arms gooseflesh. Much too quiet, I think. Beyond the tracery where I peed, where fear came to visit me. of trees, the dark road lays in slumber. A half-dozen cabins So quiet, I can hear the cabin breathing—that rhythmic doze on either side, splintered and silent beneath night’s cold creaking as it settles in for a restless night. eye. I remember Mom and Dad slept upstairs that particular At the far end of the road where it disappears between night, and I sense the memories still fresh, burrowed in the dark, lumbering pines, I catch something. I rub my eyes and woodwork of this terrible place like hungry worms eager to look again. Something black in the road, I think. Yes, I’m sure feed once more—waiting for the world to fall asleep, except of it. Something’s there. me of course. I see a pustule bubble up from the ground like something My thoughts return to that night with every memory foul seeping through cracks. It’s not real, I think, but my intact, every fragment rejoining… pulse suddenly quickens. I see it gel into a pulsing blob, then bulge and re-form look out the bedroom window and see the road narrow under the bright moon as if unseen hands knead it. What it Iinto the thick forest. Not a place to be at night where restive looks like—what it appears to be—is human, but it isn’t… breezes whistle haunting tunes through creaking pines and not really. Even a kid knows that. Where are you, Dad? strum the curtains. They waver like the shrouded sails of a “Are you afraid now, boy?” ghostly ship. The dark thing stands upright on the road. I lay quaking at every sound. And that’s when I hear the I steady my legs with both hands when my knees begin tapping—five taps echoing off the wall, the first half of every to buckle. I feel my heart drum against my chest with such kid’s call and response to “shave-and-a-hair-cut—two bits.” force that I fear it might be loud enough to— One kid taps five times and then the other kid responds with The dark thing moves over the road like a baby taking its the preverbal two taps. I know it’s Dad letting me know I’m first steps. Slow, awkward at first, one step at a time, and then not alone. So I sit up and give the expected two taps—“two it falls face-forward on the ground and raises its body on all bits.” And somehow things don’t seem so frightening because fours. It arches its back, takes a long stretch, and then looks I know I’m not the only one awake. We never talk about around as if it senses someone watching. it—about the tapping, that is; just an unspoken agreement It’s not real, I keep telling myself. I call out for Dad, but no between father and son. sound passes over my lips. I shuffle back, terrified. I catch a Moonlight spills through the open window that second glimpse of its face in the distance and behold two yellow eyes night and butters the room in surrealistic shapes—some that nested deep in black sockets. And though it’s faint, I hear it seem to bend and crawl as if darkness breathes life into them. growl—low and throaty, and my skin becomes gooseflesh. I I get up to pee, cringing as the dry floorboards complain feel my mouth dry, the blood drained from my face. beneath my bare feet. It scurries over the road—quick and agile—then turns I haven’t heard my dad’s usual five taps that particular to the most distant cabin and spiders up the porch. In the night. Must be asleep, I think. And if Dad’s asleep and Mom gloom, I watch it stand upright. An arm worms out from is too—she could sleep through a tornado—then I’m the its torso, coils around the knob like a thin black snake and only one awake. And maybe—just maybe—I’m the only one twists. What’s it after, I wonder? awake in the entire world. I know it’s ridiculous, but standing “A boy of course,” the voice says, “A naughty boy who’s alone, feeling darkness cling to me like cold, wet sheets, I spying when he should be sleeping.” think it’s possible. I hold my breath as the thing yanks the knob, grunting I hear twigs crack through the open window and my like a pig, but the door remains shut. It backs away, then arches muscles twitch. Footsteps? I’d seen a few deer the previous its neck and shakes its head like some cheap Hollywood day and the ranger mentioned about the possibility of black werewolf. It doesn’t growl this time, but chitters like a giant, bears in the area. I convince myself that’s what’s making the prehistoric insect. I shiver and the hair on the back of my sounds, but I won’t know unless I look. And if I don’t look, neck stands poised like fine needles. I’ll never go back to sleep. Wish you were awake, Dad. Then it turns and looks in my direction, its glowing eyes I stare at the window, hesitating. searching, searching…but for what? It turns, walks unhurried

SuspenseMagazine.com 15 to the next cabin and repeats the same ritual. Locked again. isn’t it?” Four more cabins to go, I count, and my young “It’s not yours.” He released his grip and I felt my body heart pounds with the certainty that this thing—this vile go limp. blackness—will eventually reach the steps of my cabin, “If it’s not mine, then—” spider up the porch to my door, wrap its bony fingers around “It’s your Mom’s.” the rusty knob and— “Mom’s? Is she all right?” Oh God. The door! Is it locked? I hear the high pitch of I yell, but Dad wouldn’t answer. He sat quiet on the edge panic ring in my head. of the bed, elbows braced on his knees with his hands cradling Isn’t that how nightmares always begin, with an unlocked his head. I remember how sad he looked, as if someone had door? It will open it and the foul monster will most certainly put a bullet through his heart, but no one bothered to tell step in for a visit—a visit with the only boy awake at three him he was dead. a.m. “She’s gone,” he said, his voice flat. My legs weaken and I have to tell myself to breathe. I “Mom,” I shouted, and ran from the room, searching. know it’s coming. Oh yes, it’s definitely on its way. Dad caught me but not before I saw what was in the I hold my breath when it turns to the next cabin, studies downstairs bathroom. I don’t remember when I stopped it and steps to cross the road. Then it stops mid-way, cocks its screaming. head. Is it listening? She lay in the bathtub, the water wine-colored. Her head It turns and I swear it stares right through my window, cocked to one side. The deep slit in her wrist, pronounced. right into my eyes. I feel the weight of its presence press She looked serene as if she were sleeping. I didn’t even notice against my flesh. I feel my heart fist against my chest so she was naked. hard that I struggle to keep my balance. It chitters in the I turned to Dad with wet cheeks, my red stained hands distance and I understand that this is no insect and not the held out in front of me. “Did I do that? Did I—” Boogeyman my parents warned me about. No, this one is “No,” he insisted, “You didn’t kill anyone.” real. And this one sees me. “But—” I turn around. The long, gloomy hallway that leads to “Your mother did it to herself.” He hugged me tight, the living room that leads to the unlocked door seems miles nearly squeezing the air from my lungs. “You gotta believe away and I know what I have to do, but my legs refuse. me, you’re not to blame.” “Come on. Just do it,” I beg myself, nearly in tears. “Go He calmed me down and then told me to take a shower lock the damn door you big wuss, before it’s—” in the upstairs bathroom. That’s when I see a shadow crawl beneath my legs and “You’ll feel better,” he said, and I must admit that I did. swallows my body in its blackness. When I stepped from the shower, I found fresh clothing I hear the sound of labored breathing rise up behind me laid out for me, but my red-stained shirt and pee-soaked and I turn my head slowly, praying “Please don’t be there, underwear had vanished. please don’t be there.” The police soon arrived and Mom’s death was eventually The dark figure stoops on the other side of the filthy declared a suicide. All nice and neat, I guess. Strange though. window screen peering in as if it was gaping at some caged I didn’t cry that morning nor did I cry at the funeral, and it animal. And maybe I am, I think, as I stare into those watery, bothered me. She was my mother for God’s sake. yellow eyes set deep in the void of its black face. Then it sniffs, Mom and I were never close, but I do remember how presses against the screen. she doted on me when I became deathly ill. She never left Did it smell my fear? my bedside, made all of my meals—some from scratch. I I don’t feel the warmth spread down my legs or smell the guess you could say I was close to her then, but that changed pungent odor of urine puddling around my feet. after my recovery. It took its toll on my mom and dad’s My heart stops when I hear its boney knuckles rap on the relationship, however; they seemed more distant after my windowsill, rap five times—shave and a haircut… illness, my father becoming more protective. He told me Dad found me next morning lying where I’d collapsed. Mom had a sickness in her head, that she wasn’t herself at He helped me to my feet and that’s when I noticed something times—that we needed to be careful around her. sticky and red on my hands, a spot on my T-shirt, still damp That didn’t make sense, I told him, but he made me with—oh god! promise to stay away from her when she seemed different. I screamed, ripped off my shirt. “Different?” I said. “Stop it,” Dad shouted, shaking me. “Just calm down. “Just be careful.” You’re not bleeding.” Dad hoped that summer would to bring us together as a “But I’m—” family, but we hadn’t been that in years, if ever. A couple days “You’re okay,” he said, still clutching my arms. “Just relax, after Mom’s death, we packed up and headed home. Nothing will you?” was the same after that…except the nightmares. “But the blood,” I said, hitching my breath. “It’s blood,

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 16 So here I stand once more in the same bedroom five “No,” I say crossing my arms. “I have a right to know, years later, in the midst of a nightmare that nearly took my Dad.” And this time I stand my ground. sanity. Still no answers, but so many questions. The blood, Minutes tick by as he topples the fiery embers with the dark thing, Mom’s death. None of it made sense. a poker, and then says, “Maybe it is time.” He pops open I shake my head. What did the doctor think would another can and settles into a cushy chair. “I know you loved happen, anyway? That I’d re-live some god-awful tragedy your mom. Hell, so did I. But she was ill for most of your life. that would somehow make me normal again? Is that what You never really got to know your real mom—the woman I she thought? I never told her about the blood; Dad made me married.” He takes another gulp, sighs. “Didn’t realize how ill promise to say nothing and forget it ever happened. I kept she was until it was too late.” the first part of that promise. “But why did she do it?” I say, sitting straight. “Why did I look down, see my arms gooseflesh as dread coils she…you know?” around my chest. I strain to breathe and I realize I can’t go on “She didn’t.” like this, living in constant fear. “But you said—” I shut the window, crawl under the covers and pull the “I know what I said, but listen to me,” Dad says, raising a blanket over my head. Five years older and I still I feel like hand, “Just listen, okay?” that same terrified kid waiting for his dad’s two taps that I nod. never come. When is it going to end, I wonder, and suddenly “Your mom changed after you were born as if someone I feel anger explode inside me. flipped a switch inside her head.” He rubbed his face in the Could death be any worse than this constant fear that red glow of the crackling fire. “One minute, she was fine—my shackles my life? And I know what I must do. “It ends old girl, as I used to call her—then poof, she was someone tonight,” I promise myself. else, someone I didn’t recognize. The doctors said she had a I jump from bed, raise the window, ball my hands into multiple personality disorder, or something like that. Who fists and press my face against the gritty window screen knows. All I know, it wasn’t the woman I fell in love with.” shouting, “Give me your best shot, asshole.” “Like that TV series about the woman with the five I half expect to see the dark thing to suddenly appear personalities?” with those burning yellow eyes drilling into my soul. “It wasn’t like that,” he says, shaking his head. “This was But the night remains still, even peaceful. different.” I don’t sleep, but stand at the window peering out, my “So…she was different. That doesn’t mean—” heart drumming for hours. No dark thing, and I breathe easy “Different in a bad way,” he says, then looks directly at when morning light spears through the fragrant pines. I lay me shaking his head, “No, not bad. Evil. Something black my head on the pillow and inhale the cool air. I stretch and it inside her.” feels so damned good. Maybe the doctor was right. Dad walks over, sits on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees. ays and nights pass in the old cabin and somewhere in “I came home early one day, but your mom was gone— Dits midst, Dad and I relax, even start communicating at the store, or least that’s what she said. When I walked in again. He reminisces about happier days just after marrying the house, I heard you in the bathroom. You were in the tub Mom and I see a smile sprout on his face—not for long, but taking a bath, playing with your toys without a care in the it was definitely there. world.” Dad bites hard on his lip. “You weren’t even a year After dinner, he stokes the burning logs in the fireplace. old. When I think what could have happened to you.” When he returns from the kitchen, I hear, “Catch.” I see rage redden his face, his jaws clench, “I could have I turn just in time to intercept a cold can of beer from killed her,” he says, grinding his teeth. hitting my face. I never saw dad tremble before, not until now. And from “I know you’re only fifteen, but I think you deserve one. the look in his eyes, I sincerely believe he could have hurt Hell, we both do,” he says with pride, and I smile. mom, maybe worse. “Cool,” I say, and pop it open. I chug it down pretending “You did, didn’t you?” I say, not believing the words to be a seasoned drinker, but grimace when gas bubbles burn coming out of my mouth. “You killed Mom.” the inside of my nose. “No I didn’t,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I Dad laughs, pats my back, “Easy does it, kiddo.” couldn’t kill her. But the fact is…she tried to hurt you on The evening wears on with good talk of better times several occasions and—” and I’m beaming because I seem to have my old dad back. “That’s not true!” I say, jumping to my feet. “Mom never When the roaring logs mellow into glowing embers and the tried to hurt me. That’s a lie.” midnight hour nears, I ask him what really happened that “As God is my witness, I’m telling you the truth. So if night so many years ago. you’ll just sit down, I’ll tell the rest, but you’re not going to He takes one last swig of beer then studies the fire. believe it…I know I didn’t.” “Some things are best left—” “Fine.” I sit down, cross my arms. “I’m listening.”

SuspenseMagazine.com 17 “You want another beer?” he asks, nodding his head “You sure you’re all right?” Dad shakes me and I feel my toward the kitchen. world settle back into focus. I shake my head. “Uh huh,” I say, not really paying attention. “You may need one.” “Are you all right?” “I’ll take my chances.” “Yeah, I’m fine.” I run my fingers through my hair and He scrubs his whiskered chin and says, “Mom had say, “I still don’t understand why Mom cut her wrist.” another personality inside her. The doctors got that right. “She wanted to protect you when she wasn’t under the What they got wrong was its origin.” influence of that damn thing inside her—that demon!” Dad I throw Dad a puzzled look. splashes beer into the fire and it hisses when the embers spit “It wasn’t the personality of an individual.” He turns, back. “But she fought it, tried to control it as best she could.” looks at me with sober eyes, “It wasn’t human, all right? Then his face pales. Something not from this world. What you saw on the old “But it was too strong, and it would’ve eventually killed mountain road—that dark thing as you call it—was the thing your mom—you, too. She knew that.” inside your mother.” He kneels by the fire as if he’s about to pray, “She asked “Did you ever see it?” for my help.” Dad turns away, “More times than I can count. First time “How?” was several months after your birth. I woke up around three Dad makes a slicing motion on his wrist, and I see one a.m. and saw a tall black shadow standing—hovering, in the tear trail down his cheek, “It was the hardest thing I ever had corner of the bedroom. It had angry yellow eyes that watched to do. God I loved her so much…but it wasn’t her in the end, me—the rage in those eyes.” Dad shudders, and then turns you see, just a small fragment.” back to me. He rubs his arms vigorously, “Sound familiar?” “You cut her?” I shout. “You cut Mom?” I sit frozen. He looks at me in surprise as if I’d punched him in the “Next morning, everything seemed okay so I just gut, “No, I would never hurt your mother.” chalked it up to a bad dream. Kept telling myself it was just a “Then what? What did you do?” nightmare. Boy was I wrong. It didn’t stop, and the frequency “I did nothing,” Dad says, rubbing his eyes with the heel of those encounters increased over time. Thought I was going of his palms. “I just didn’t stop her this time.” crazy.” “This time? I ask, feeling my temples throb. “There were “Why didn’t you say something?” other times?” “And scare you even more?” Dad shakes his head. “You He nods. didn’t need that, and I didn’t need to be thinking about it.” “But what about the blood? It was on my hands.” “But how did you know it came from Mom?” I ask. “It was from me—on me,” he corrects, “It was your Dad gets up from the couch, looks out the big bay mom’s.” He looks down at his hands as if something dirty window, “The tapping.” filled his palms. “I tried to pick you up. Some of it must have “Huh?” got on you.” “The tapping. It would tap on the wall like this.” He taps We didn’t say a word after that, just called it a night. five times to shave-and-a-haircut and I feel each tap resound through like the clang of a large church bell. t’s nearly eleven a.m. when I awake. “Shit,” I murmur. I Funny how good I sleep, better than I‘ve slept in years. “What did you say?” And no nightmares. I take my time, shower, dress and pack “Nothing,” I reply, and urge him to go on while my up. Dad too. We talk at breakfast and it seems the dark cloud insides churn. shadowing our lives for so many years has passed. “Your mom would tap. It was all in fun in the beginning. I hear him honk the horn and I give the bedroom a Then it became an obsession with her. She would tap on final once-over—bright and peaceful it all seems now and the wall, the table or whatever was handy, waiting for me to wonder how this room could have ever spawned something respond with my two taps. She thought it was funny, until I so unspeakable. refused to play. That’s when I saw Mom’sother side. Her voice I open the front door as I’m about to leave and then pause. changed dramatically—deep and throaty, almost a growl. I I think about Mom. We didn’t enjoy the typical mother and knew it wasn’t her. Then she swore at me in a language I never son relationship—all lovey dovey—and yet when it came to knew—Latin, Arabic, Hebrew…how the hell do I know?” my life she made the ultimate sacrifice. I feel the ground give way as my dad speaks. I feel myself “I miss you, Mom,” I say with reverence. falling. I shut the door for the last time and press my hand “You okay, son?” Dad asks. against it. Thank you for loving me. I feel my stomach fill my throat because I know it wasn’t I feel the splintered wood beneath my palm suddenly Dad playing the tap game with me all those times. And if it vibrate when I hear tapping in strong, measured beats— wasn’t him… shave and a haircut… ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 18 “A plunge into New Orleans/Cajun culture. High society to Zydeco icehouse bars, Lyons covers the gamut.

A series worth following.”MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM~SUSPeNSe MAGAZINe

Published by emily Bestler Books / Atria / Simon & Schuster

In Paperback march 26th!

Also Available in Hard Cover, ...Coming in August! Audiobook, and E-Book! nd in the series!

“This is an auspicious beginning for a mystery series featuring one of the most agreeably easy going heroes on this side of the Atlantic.” ~KIRKUS REVIEWS

“A novel with almost clairvoyant timing, a fascinating plot and complex characters.” ~NYT Bestselling Author, Graham Brown

Free Personalized Digital Book Cover - www.DavidLyonsAuthor.com

I want to thank readers for giving my character Jock Boucher, Renegade Cajun Federal Judge, such an enthusiastic welcome to the world of thriller fiction. Jock’s next adventure will be coming in August! David Lyons What Lies

Beyond By Patrick Gallogly Jake Stanton pulled his aging station wagon into the driveway of the old house at the end of Maple Street. He had been frightened to come here at first. He had never been to a place like this before, but sitting in front of the building, he quickly lost his fear. There was nothing frightening about the house. It was actually quite normal looking: painted a pretty, light blue with white accents around the windows, perfectly manicured grass was a brilliant green and a decoratively pruned apple tree slightly off-center from the middle of the lawn. It was an almost perfectly picturesque scene. Jake was here to see a psychic medium. He started having problems a number of years ago when he reached adolescence. His moods had become erratic. He would get into screaming matches with his parents and would even go into violent rages where he would throw and break things. His parents had written it off as just being a teenager until one day he had gone into a deep depression and attempted to kill himself by swallowing a massive dose of his mother’s sleeping pills. Staring into the empty bottle, Jake had second thoughts and immediately told his parents what he had done. They acted quickly and took him to the emergency room where his stomach was pumped and he was turned over to a psychiatrist. Since then, Jake was on daily doses of a variety of anti-psychotics and anti-depressants and he was growing tired of them. The years of medication and therapy didn’t feel like they had done very much for his personality. Sure, on the surface it appeared everything was better. His grades had gone up, he began to get along better with his parents, he stopped having the fits of rage and he had even been able to earn a scholarship and start attending college. Something was still there though. Deeply seated somewhere inside him was a nagging remnant of his previous mental state. He would get fired from jobs because he couldn’t get along with his co-workers. His girlfriends would all leave him because they said that he was “emotionally unavailable.” He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him and the psychiatrists couldn’t help him at all. They would just tell him that those things were to be expected in somebody his age and he would progress more as time went on. Now twenty-two-years-old, Jake was fed-up with how his life was going. His problems caused him to be a loner. He lived on the outskirts of society and it was on a late night fringe talk show that he heard of this therapy that might be able to help his situation. The therapy was called past life regression. This therapy was based on the idea that, after a human life ended, its energy, or soul, didn’t die with the body, but was simply transferred to another available host, most often an unborn child. The idea of past life regression was that this energy still held remnants of the previous life and these remnants could actively affect the mind of the new host. In this therapy, the patient would be put under hypnosis by a medium who would attempt to seek out the memories of the patient’s past life and try to discover the reasons for the patient’s current condition so that they could try to fix it. Jake sat in his car, staring at the house for a few more minutes, wondering if he really believed in this kind of

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 20 thing. “Screw it,” he said as he opened his door and stepped out onto the driveway. He closed the door behind him and approached the front door of the house. Before he had a chance to ring the doorbell, the door opened invitingly and a woman stood there facing him. “My name is Patricia Jenkens,” she said with a warm smile as she extended her hand. She didn’t look like any psychic that Jake had ever seen in a movie. She appeared to be a normal person. She was maybe forty-years-old, but looked good for her age: slim and unimposing with dark brown hair that fell slightly past her shoulders. She also had the kindest eyes Jake had ever seen. Jake embraced the outstretched hand in his and shook it cordially. “Jake Stanton,” he said, returning the smile, “We spoke on the phone.” “Oh yes, come right in.” She turned around and began to walk deeper into the house so Jake closed the door behind him and followed. He found himself in a living room that looked exactly as he would have expected after seeing the exterior of the house. The walls were painted a pale yellow and were covered with family pictures. An old tube television sat on a dark wood stand against one wall. Across the room there was a pair of floral print sofas kitty-cornered against the perpendicular walls with a small table in the corner between them. It all seemed very grandmotherly. “Please have a seat,” she said to him with a sweeping gesture of her hand. Jake sat down on one of the sofas and she placed herself on the opposite sofa so she could face him. “So tell me what’s been bothering you,” she said, “You said that you were interested in past life regression because of some mood issues, is that correct?” “Yes ma’am,” he began. “Oh hush with that, you can just call me Patricia.” “Yes ma’…” he caught himself, “Patricia.” Jake told the story of his life and why he felt like his opportunities were being restricted because of his inability to form relationships with others. She didn’t say a word as he was telling his story, she just nodded every once in a while as she listened carefully. “I don’t like all the medication you’re on,” she said after he finished. “The anti-psychotics can sometimes make it difficult for the hypnotic state to take hold, but I believe that regression will help you so I think we should give it a try. Now, I don’t want your expectations too high for this first session, but we’ll just start slowly and see what we can find. Therapy like this can sometimes be simple, but most of the time it is quite extensive and can require multiple visits.” Jake nodded his head, “I’ve been hearing a lot about it on the late night talk shows so I am somewhat familiar with the process. I’m willing to try pretty much anything if it has any chance of working.” “All right,” she said, “Just lie back, close your eyes and relax. I’ll begin when I see that you are in a receptive state.” Jake laid his head back on the sofa cushion, closed his eyes, and started to relax. He was almost asleep when he finally heard her voice. “Okay,” she said, “Now I want you to picture yourself in a room. The room has a single door across from you and it has ten things that signify something important to you in it.” Jake imagined the room. It was small. Across from him was a brilliant red door and he was surrounded by things from his life. His Yankee baseball cap was there, his first dog, his favorite book, his high school ring, a chair from his parents living room, a notebook that he knew contained his collection of baseball cards, his college laptop, an old, stuffed elephant from when he was a kid, his bed, and his favorite jacket. “Have you pictured the room?” he heard her ask, seemingly further in the distance now. “Yes,” he replied. “Okay,” she said, “Now I’m going to count down from ten and as I do I want you to make something from the room disappear with each number I say. When I get to zero I want you to open the door and enter into the last life that you lived.” He nodded his head. “Ten,” she said, “nine.” He made his ball cap disappear.

SuspenseMagazine.com 21 “Eight.” His first dog faded out of the room. She continued on until he was left in an empty room. He walked across to the door and opened it. When he stepped across the threshold he found himself in what looked like a prison cell, he looked down and saw he was dressed in an orange jumpsuit. “Where are you?” he heard Patricia ask in a voice that sounded like it originated in his head. “I’m in a prison cell,” he replied. “Do you see any indication of who you are?” He looked around the small cell, but saw that it was completely barren. Nothing here could help him. “The cell is completely empty,” he told her. “Okay, you are going to walk to the cell door. This door will be unlocked and when you walk through it you will still be in this past life, but as a child.” Jake found the door unlocked, as she said it would be. He stepped through it and found himself in a dirty dining room with a middle-aged couple sitting across from him. “Eat your peas, Theodore,” Jake heard the woman say. “Okay,” Jake said in his head, “there’s a woman here and she called me Theodore. I don’t see anything that could tell me my last name though.” “Okay,” he heard the faint voice say, “Now go to the front door and step outside, when you do you will jump forward twenty years in this life. Tell me what you see.” Jake did what she instructed and found himself standing outside an open door of a classic Volkswagen Beetle. He peered inside and jumped when he saw the crumpled form of a beautiful young woman on the floorboard where a passenger seat should have been. His mind flashed back to books he had read in high school and a horrible realization swept over him. “Oh my god,” he said, “I’m Ted Bundy.” He explained to her the scene and there was a momentary pause before she answered. “Okay, we found a result quicker than I thought we would. This is a good thing. We’re going to go ahead and pull you back and discuss our results so we can decide how to proceed.” She had him go back to the imagined room and repeat the process with the personal items in reverse until he was standing in the room surrounded by his things again. “Now just walk back through that door and you will be fully conscious again,” he heard her say. He took a step forward, but was caught off guard when he was forcefully pushed down to the floor. He looked up to see what happened. Above him was a young Ted Bundy smiling at him. “Thanks for the help, buddy,” he said with a chilling look in his eye and then he turned around and walked out the door. Patricia watched as Jake’s eyes opened and she welcomed him back with a smile. “I think that went quite well for our first session,” she told him, “now we can discuss how you would like to proceed. There are a variety of options.” Jake sat up and grinned in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. “Are you feeling okay, Jake?” she asked. “Not Jake,” he said as he got up and grabbed a letter opener from the table next to the couch. Patricia didn’t know what happened, but she knew she needed to run so she turned and sprinted towards the door. “Get back here, you stupid cunt,” she heard Not-Jake yell behind her. She felt a hand grab hers as she was thrown violently to the floor. She screamed as she saw his hand swing towards her chest holding the letter opener. The slightly-sharp instrument plunged into her chest and she felt an incredible amount of pain. It struck again and again! Her vision began to darken around the edges as she slipped out of consciousness. The last thing she saw was his blood-covered, smiling face. Not-Jake stood up when he was finally done. He smiled as he felt a horrified emotion come from deep within. He knew that Jake knew what he had done. Ted dropped the small blade onto the floor and walked across the room to the door. With one last glance at the gruesome scene he turned and stepped out into the sun. ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 22 No Reservations

By Laura Kathryn Rogers “Now, I know what Hell sounds like,” Christopher muttered. “What?” Ingrid, Christopher’s wife of ten years, demanded. After ten years, Christopher thought, I might be used to her. However, after a decade of marriage, Ingrid could still use a tone that had the effect of a fork scraping a cast-iron frying pan. “My coffee, I let it get cold,” Christopher said, “That’s what I said.” “No, you didn’t!” Ingrid came into the room, her cigarette in hand, her mouth curved in a predator- like expression. “You said something about hell,” Ingrid insisted. “I heard you.” Why did I marry her? Christopher asked himself. I must have been drunk. That had to be it. Christopher thought glumly. She had been less gray, less shrewish, less of a chain-smoker. The house—once his only—shared with his beloved cat, Daffodil, seemed to wear within its walls a general hopelessness. As if it too absorbed all the nagging, heckling, bullying, and unwarranted criticism it could stand. “Okay, you’ve got me.” Christopher sighed. “Hell it is…or was.” Ingrid plopped down in the sickening yellow-green chairs that she’d found at some yard sale, banishing the ones Christopher’s first wife, Flora, had sewn red and blue flowered cushions for. Banished everything that Flora contributed. “It’s my house, now,” Ingrid demanded. Christopher had given in. “What about hell?” she said, letting loose a cloud of exhaled smoke Christopher’s way as if aiming it. She knew that Christopher had asthma, and cigarette smoke aggravated it. She didn’t seem to care. “Oh, I was wondering what hell might be like,” Christopher said. The light of battle lit her blue eyes. Christopher thought those eyes attractive once, during their whirlwind courtship. Back when she was kind, flirtatious, and even gentle. Back when those eyes seemed to have a trace of compassion in them. Now, they reminded him of nothing so much as the eyes of a bird of prey. With Christopher as her intended victim. Christopher sighed and started to get up. “Where are you going?” she demanded. Ingrid never asked anything. Everything felt like an inquisition. She took another deep drag of her cigarette. Her silver- white short shag only accentuated the predator look. This wife of his—human? “I was thinking of Anne’s place, looking around. She had some new travel folders in. Just looking, mind you. I know we can’t go…”

SuspenseMagazine.com 23 Ingrid gave a derisive hoot, “I bet that’s what you want to go look at. She’s what? Sixty-two? Well-preserved, to be sure, but still. Another few years she’ll look like a dried up prune.” Speak for yourself, Christopher thought. “Well, yes, you go see her. But bring something back. More than a good memory, you hear? Go find something extraordinary. I want a vacation. Don’t come back ‘til you find something incredible!” Ingrid snapped, lighting a fresh cigarette. “And go feed your miserable cat before you go. The thing’s been at the door begging to come in. Have you been sneaking him in again when I’m not here?” “Ingrid, he was born in this house. He lived inside for years…” “I don’t want him in here! I hate him! I hate cats. They’re sneaky and nasty.” Christopher once heard that people described animals in the way they viewed themselves. Daffodil, a large, eleven-year- old Tom with a forgiving nature and loving heart, wasn’t anything close to Ingrid’s description. “I’m going, okay?” Christopher went towards the pantry for Daffodil’s food, and went outside. Daffodil trilled and purred loudly, circling Christopher’s ankles while he poured the cat food into a dish. Christopher brightened as he petted the feline. “Be glad you’re neutered, fella,” he said, and headed out towards Anne’s travel gallery, a small shop about two blocks distant. Christopher kept his walk to a stroll, a dawdle until he got out of Ingrid’s line of vision. Then, he kicked up his heels, like a boy. His wife so rarely allowed him to go anywhere without her. He crossed the little, ancient drawbridge that divided their Ohio subdivision from the city of Owensboro, where they lived. Where Christopher had been born and where Ingrid moved from San Francisco, to take a job teaching. At fifty-eight, she could have retired several times, but refused. At seventy-two, Christopher retired, had been that way when they met. He enjoyed his quiet life and hoped it would continue. How she must terrify the kids at her school! Christopher thought, as he walked, his pace quickening. Watching him, one might even say he was running…away? Christopher, lost in his thoughts, finally looked up, and noticed that he’d somehow gotten into a part of town he didn’t recognize. At first, he felt some alarm. He wondered how he could cover the distance so quickly. Why he didn’t recognize the place, when he thought he knew all of Owensboro. The streets were shabby: littered with bits of broken bottles, newsprint, and rotting fish. He wondered if he’d gotten near to the Ohio river and if a fisherman was selling just-caught wares. If so, he covered about two miles in a very short time. But where was he? And how might he get back? Then he was right in front of an old and battered shop. A florescent sign advertised ‘travel.’ The windows had old, yellowed pictures of Paris, Rome, India, and places in America. Christopher stood, and wondered. The place didn’t look busy, or even open. Should he try the door? She told him to come back with something. The old man who staffed the dusty, moldy smelling office gave Christopher a great, cheerful grin with big, yellow teeth. He wore a ratty looking blue sweater, a stained white shirt underneath, and pale gray pants hitched up high on his waist. He could have been Christopher’s age, or a thousand years older. But he seemed harmless… “I see you found my shop, Christopher,” the man said. “How?” Christopher gaped. “Never mind,” the man said kindly, “It’s my business to know all about my clients. Been expecting you.” “You have?” “Of course. Could be senility. I swore it would be sooner than this. You’ve got a strong constitution, don’t you? Well, let’s get down to business. My name is Bernhart Beckmann. I…specialize in extraordinary vacations.” Exactly her words, Christopher thought. “Did my wife call you?” Bernhart chuckled and pulled out a folder. Enough dust flew off the manila folder to be the cremation of a dead person. Christopher felt his eyes starting to water. “Sorry, old fellow,” Bernhart said, still kindly. “Forgot all about your allergies.” He looked around at the dust, clapped his hands, and spoke to nothing. “Now, stop that! Enough! Go back to your own!” Just as quickly as that, the room was free of dust, free of the musty smell. The air was clear and easy to breathe. Christopher took a deep breath and felt his symptoms dissipating within seconds. He was amazed, and was beginning to be a bit frightened.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 24 “If not Ingrid, then…ah…” Bernhart pulled some rimless glasses from the nether regions of his desk. He placed them on his nose, wiggled it and sneezed. The glasses fell off. He patiently replaced them. “Here is the file. Yes, we’ve been aware of Ingrid for some time. Those poor devils she married. Oh, sorry.” He looked up and there was an impish look on his face that told Christopher he was not a bit sorry. “Did you know that she caused a rector to hang himself?” Bernhart continued to go through the file. “She was on the altar guild at his parish. Sang in his choir.” “Ingrid is tone-deaf,” Christopher said. “Precisely.” Bernhart took off his glasses. “So, an extraordinary vacation. She wants it, and we have just the thing. Well, not quite a vacation, more of an outing, a sort of dinner theater if you will.” “I don’t think Ingrid had that in mind,” Christopher said nervously, eying the door. “Steady there. Good lad. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of that waspish tongue. Don’t blame you. Here. Take this to her. See if it appeals. She might just like it very much.” Without understanding how he again got outside the door, Christopher saw that the area around him was now familiar. He was less than a block from home. He looked down at the folder with the bright red stamp of “Incredible Adventures” on it. He hadn’t seen that on the folder before. This one looked professional. The other one was yellowed manila, with coffee stains on it. He trudged up to the doorstep, fearing what Ingrid would say. She was, true to his fears, waiting where he’d left her, a fresh smoke in her wrinkled hands. She snorted derisively when she saw him. “What’s that? A marriage proposal from your new girlfriend? Did you tell her you’re taken?” She stopped speaking and stared at the folder in his hands. It was smoking. Ingrid snatched the folder from Christopher—opened it. Was it an optical illusion? If so, it was a damned good one. And that smell, subtle at first, but growing stronger. What was it? “What sort of joke is this?” The vulture-like look on her face reminded Christopher of a hawk ready to snatch a small animal. “No j…joke,” he stammered. “Not from me, at least. It’s what the guy gave me. It was a weird place. Not even sure how I got there.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said dismissively. “Okay, you’ve done your job. Go away, watch TV or something. I want to read this.” She was still reading the folder two hours later. Christopher came back, overjoyed at being able to watch two nag-free hours of public television, something Ingrid hated. He nearly choked on the smell in the room. It was the smell of the folder, only much stronger. Sulfur. Ingrid turned to him, “This is it! This is where we’re going!” “Where?” Christopher asked. “To hell.” She had such a hungry look on her face that for a moment, Christopher feared for her sanity. “Oh, don’t look at me that way, you clod. Not ‘real’ hell, though they make it sound that way. Very convincing. It’s a dinner and theater in one. You get to dine with the most evil characters of history and hear their stories!!” Christopher came over timidly and looked at the open folder. In it, were two crimson tickets with gilded edges. Blinking his eyes, he reached for them, only to have Ingrid slap his hands away. “Get your mitts off them. I’ll be handling this.” Ingrid grasped the tickets to her meager breasts as if they were a cherished lover. A wizened smile spread on her wrinkled face making her look more hideous to Christopher than usual. When had he grown to hate her so? “Go get shaved and dressed. Black tie is what it says. It’s tonight. We’re expected within the hour.” Thirty minutes later, Christopher, nervous, unhappy, and stiff in the only suit he owned, walked outside with Ingrid, to the waiting black, stretch limousine. For once, Ingrid was silent. She settled into the lush leather seats of the vehicle, noting that it was top of the line. She wore an off the shoulder, red-sequined gown that Christopher had not seen before. She slicked her hair back into an almost masculine style, and applied make-up skillfully. The driver, a silent, hulking man in a tuxedo had an emotionless face. He handled his job perfectly, operating his vehicle masterfully. The night seemed darker than usual, and, while the scenery outside seemed to pass at a normal speed, Christopher felt the sense of increasing speed. Soon, there were no landmarks, just trees, which seemed to grow thicker. Were they going into some sort of park?

SuspenseMagazine.com 25 Christopher didn’t know. He couldn’t still the feeling of disquiet and foreboding as the car left the forest, and came to rest in front of what first looked like a mausoleum. Shuttered windows, not compartments soon disposed of that notion. Again, Christopher pondered the location. He thought he knew the area intimately. Where were they? The driver opened the door and handed Ingrid out. He then went, and strangely sat back in the car, as if waiting. But, for what? Ingrid seemed to forget Christopher. Then, as an afterthought, she motioned disgustedly for him to follow her. The room had white, satin walls, tall ceilings, and plush red carpet. Everything spoke fabulous expense. It reminded Christopher of the inside of a palace. It was brilliantly lighted and the chandeliers seemed to greedily drink the light and bounce it back. A butler, also silent, led them to an elevator. They stepped in. Christopher, of the three of them, wondered if he was the only one who noticed they started on the top floor. There was only one other button and the feeling of sinking as the elevator took them with rapid speed to their destination. The doors opened to reveal a long, elegantly set dining room. At first, Christopher feared they were late. The meal appeared to be in progress. The host, a genial-looking man in full tuxedo with a closely shaved head and neatly-trimmed black beard approached them. He gave them a wide, toothy grin. His large dark eyes appeared to be kind, yet amused at the same time. “Ingrid! So good to see you! And, Christopher, is it? Please sit down. You have the seats to my left and right. The seats of honor!” Conversation hushed as this statement was made. The assembled guests gaped at them openly. The host continued, concentrating on Christopher. “We are all so glad to have you…been waiting some time to entertain your wife, you see. Ah, my manners. You may call me M. Easier than pronouncing the actual name. Just M.” Christopher was freshly astonished as he looked down at the table. Whoever prepared the event spared no expense. The people were obviously dead-ringers for who they were supposed to represent. He was a student of history and a former professor of the subject for years. Next to him sat a man who could have been the twin of Hitler. Down further, there was a Stalin. And could that be—a woman looked amazingly like Lucrezia Borgia. He didn’t recognize many of the others. He could only make half-guesses. Perhaps Napoleon and was that Lizzie Borden? A late comer arrived, struggling with girth and mobility issues made his way to the last available seat, one that was wide and seemed made especially for a larger person. Incredible, Christopher thought. “Ah, your Highness, we were about to despair,” M said, his grin seeming almost carnivorous. The king sat heavily and without comment. He slurped from his wine glass, didn’t bother to wipe his face, and then looked at Ingrid. “Mayhap I inquire about this guest of honor?” He stated these things as if he doubted the justification for her to be accorded the designation. “She surpasses even yourself, sire,” M said. “We shall see,” the sovereign stated. Ingrid leaned across the table and snapped her fingers in Christopher’s face. “Who the hell does he think he is?” she snarled. Christopher looked at his wife, weary and itching in his suit, and shrugged. “By all appearances, he appears to think he’s Henry VIII, later years of course.” “Right!” Ingrid snapped. “He is right.” M said, “But enough of this chatter. Our guests are eager to dine. I think it would be a good start for them to introduce themselves to you one by one.” Christopher had been right with his guesses. The men and women introduced themselves. Hitler, Napoleon, Lizzie Borden. Henry VIII. Others spoke. “I am Joseph Stalin. Over twenty million of my people starved to death during my rule. I did nothing.” “I am Bella Stanford. I poisoned thirty children in my classroom after my lover jilted me. Rather than be caught, I drank some of the poison myself.” “I am Ted Bundy. I murdered three hundred fourteen women. I confessed to only a small portion before I was electrocuted.” “John Wilkes Booth.” “Al Capone.” “Joseph Mengele.” The names went on, until there were only two left. One was a kindly looking white-haired man who looked like everyone’s idea of a beloved uncle. He straightened up in his chair, and introduced himself. “George Parker. I pretended to be a godly man, but bribed and bullied people. I lied about my wealth and cheated the poor. I destroyed anyone who found out about me.” There was a silence. M knocked sharply on the table. “Gerald, must you always do this? I’m sure Ingrid would like to

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 26 know how you rated a seat at her table.” “I’m bored with this, M,” Gerald protested. “I didn’t do my deeds to be put on perpetual…display.” “Yet, on display you are,” M said, his voice something terrible. Even Ingrid seemed to tremble at the hearing of it. “On display, at my whim, for eternity.” Gerald balked, nervous in his seat, “Very well, then. I killed five women. Whores—worthless parasites that did not deserve life.” M smiled, “Good, good. Now tell them, you weren’t known as Gerald, were you?” Gerald shook his head. “Your name. For our honored guests’ pleasure.” Gerald sighed deeply, desperation and resignation in the sound, “I was known as Jack the Ripper.” Suddenly, Gerald’s dull eyes lit up, “Hey! We go through this every time, Guvna! But you never tell the folks why you are here. How about it?” M bowed his head gallantly. “Of course. Pride. I’m here…because of pride.” Before Ingrid could comment, wait staff came in, exquisitely dressed to serve their first course. It was a chilled consume, very tasty and just enough to whet the appetite. Ingrid was not happy, however. “Is this it?” she whispered loudly at Christopher. “Just dinner with a bunch of actors? How much did you pay them for it?” M smiled at her genially, “Your husband has not yet paid. The price has not yet been decided upon. He can decide how much it was worth to him at the end of the evening.” “No more than one hundred,” Ingrid hissed. Christopher dropped his head meekly. At the end of the table came a mocking laugh. Henry VIII stood up, making the table rock, “Are ye a man? She would have gone to the tower for less if she were my wife!” He roared. Ingrid was on her feet in an instant, “But I’m not your wife. Nor would I marry a fat, syphilitic, pathetic old man!” Something in her tone quenched the fire in the monarch. He sank into his chair. Christopher wondered how good an actor he was after all. Would the real Henry have tolerated such insolence? Ingrid looked around, and then daintily sat down, as if nothing had been said. The meal continued, each course more delicious than the last. Ingrid found fault with all of it. Most of this was directed at Napoleon, her unfortunate dinner partner to her left. The rest at M who enjoyed his food and never lost his amused, slightly mocking satyr-like expression. Christopher shut Ingrid out as best as possible and engaged Hitler in conversation. He found, to his surprise that the man was quite intelligent for an actor. He was very well read, able to intelligently discuss “Mein Kampf” with authority. He also was most knowledgeable about Austria. Towards dessert, he realized that M was looking at him in a benign way. He noted the host’s eyes again. They were dark pools of magnetism, seeming to draw you into them, yet giving nothing back. Was it kindness in them, or a predator’s cunning? “You are so out-of-place here,” M said gently. Again, Christopher was perplexed. M seemed a complex individual, kind, yet harsh, manipulative, yet reasonable. Certainly he was an excellent host, but his cryptic answer about why he was at the dinner did nothing to explain who he was. “Don’t talk to him!” Ingrid snapped, “Talk to me! It’s my evening, not his!” She gave Christopher a withering look. “He is—nothing.” “By all means, my dear,” M said. “I see that we are all finished. Let’s retire to the screening room. The highlight of the evening awaits us.” Ingrid tried to badger M for information all the way to the screening room. M remained absolutely silent, charmingly offering her his arm. Ingrid smirked at Christopher, “This is what a real man is like! Not like you.” The room was set up like a small theater, except the seats were gray velvet in a semi-circle. Again that feeling of elegance, no expense spared. The lights went down. It was a film that seemed to be all around them. Like 3-D. About Ingrid. There was hushed silence as it unfolded. Ingrid, who at five stabbed her Nanny in her sleep because the Nanny spanked her. She stood by the woman’s bed and

SuspenseMagazine.com 27 watched her die. Wept and looked convincingly innocent when the crime was discovered. Ingrid at twelve: she pushed a rival for top class honors to her death from the top of a three-story church balcony. No one ever questioned her. Ingrid at twenty-four: beautiful, lush, evil. Ingrid who poisoned the wife of a man with whom she had an affair, the woman died. The lover asked Ingrid to marry him. Ingrid sadistically refused. The man shot himself. Ingrid at thirty-six: the priest at her church. Ingrid hated him. No reason why, except his innate goodness. She mocked and hounded him, took pains to embarrass him, sang badly in his choir to humiliate him when the bishop visited. Purposely put things in wrong places on the altar guild and gave it no time to be corrected so that he appeared to be incompetent in the service. He was found in his home, strung up by a noose of his own making. At his funeral, Ingrid was seen to smile. The film went on, each new event, each new horror. Christopher looked at his wife. For the first time ever, she seemed frightened, uncharacteristically meek. The story went on to his marriage to her, the years of humiliation then, to the present day. Still it did not stop. It showed them coming home from the dinner. Her getting out and patting Daffodil, Christopher going to bed, Ingrid feeding Daffodil something, the trusting cat going into seizures, dying. “No!” Christopher shouted, standing up. Ingrid looked at him defensively. “Shut up, I haven’t even done it, yet!” Yet. One last scene: Ingrid bringing a limp Daffodil to Christopher’s bed, laying the cat next to him. Ingrid, standing over Christopher, a tenderizing mallet in her hands, bringing it down, down, down… The lights went on. M was standing in the center of the room. He was no longer smiling. The feral look that Christopher had seen in a smaller measure on Ingrid’s face seemed to cover his features now. There was no kindness in the face anymore. Just hunger. “Now, let the voting commence. Who best deserves to remain here, as one of your own, to greet other new arrivals? Ingrid or Christopher?” “Now wait just one damn minute!” Ingrid shrilled. “You’ll never be able to prove any of it. This sheep, this impotent little liar,” she said, pointing to Christopher, “He made it up! He’s framing me!” “Silence, foul creature,” M said, the hungry look growing more pronounced. “Which one, guests? Christopher? I see no hands. Ingrid? Ah…it is unanimous.” He turned his dark, burning eyes to her. “You will stay.” “You can’t keep me here!” she cried out. “Can’t I?” M asked smoothly. “Look at me closely. You know me, don’t you? Look closely.” Christopher looked at his wife, who was unable to look away from M. The host’s face began to change, to melt, to re- shape, to become animalistic, voyeuristic… Demonic. Ingrid began to scream. “What say you, room?” M asked. “She belongs with us.” M turned to Christopher, “You may leave.” Ingrid tried to move, but found she could not, except to look towards her husband. “Don’t leave me here!” she screeched, her eyes wide with terror. Christopher gave her the first happy smile of his marriage. “You can’t do it, Christopher!” she begged. “Actually, I can, Ingrid,” Christopher said and walked into the waiting elevator. Christopher woke up in his bed. It was the next day. He felt rested and comfortable. He saw that Daffodil had somehow gotten indoors during the night, and was curled up, purring on Ingrid’s pillow. “Okay, old man, out with you. If Ingrid sees you…” The Tom gave him a look of what could only be called feline satisfaction and didn’t budge. A search around the house revealed no Ingrid. No evidence of what should be, half a pack of smoked cigarettes by now. No trace. No red evening gown. She had not returned with him. But how had he returned? As the morning went on, Christopher was curious, but marveled at the peace. The house had been his before the marriage, and in a strange way, he felt like it was his once again. On a whim, he put the kitchen chairs he so hated by the garbage cans

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 28 and got the chairs that Flora had lovingly restored out of the garage. He put them back in the kitchen and sat in one. At noon he went out to collect the mail. He looked back at Ingrid’s car. He guessed he should report her missing. It would be the right thing to do. At the mail box, he saw only one thing in it: a large, over-sized envelope, warm to the touch and smelling faintly of a bitter smell. It was a letter, on finest stationary, done with quill pen.

Dear Christopher, I trust you enjoyed last evening’s entertainment. You need not concern yourself with Ingrid. She is settling in and I think will be a splendid addition to my group. There is however, the matter of payment. We generally ask that you give us the thing most valuable to you. I suppose in your case that would be your cat. However, I personally do not like cats. Most of the people here share my opinion. The acquisition of your Ingrid was so valuable to me that I’ve decided not to charge you. That’s right. No payment is necessary. However, if you find yourself at loose ends without your charming bride, please use the enclosed invitation to return to my realm and claim her. At that time, we will consider alternate payment arrangements.

Yours, Mephistopheles

Daffodil, fresh from a nap on Ingrid’s pillow had come out on the porch. He was just in time to see Christopher throwing something in the air. It rained down like tiny pieces of confetti. The cat walked over, smelled a piece of the debris and recoiled from the sulfuric smell. He then watched, curiously, as his master did a brief dance of joy on the lawn. Thinking how strange humans were, the cat stretched in the sunshine, and sat down to start its midday bath. ■

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Suspense Magazine Book Reviews Inside the Pages A FATAL DEBT BLACK SHEEP By John Gapper By C.J. Lyons The one thing that can always be said about this author is that she knows inside-and-out how to Not all crime in deliver the perfect blend of romance and suspense that makes her fans come back repeatedly. And this New York City takes novel is no exception. place in dark alleyways For those who missed “Blind Faith,” the character of Caitlyn Tierney is a true ‘gem.’ This FBI Supervisory Special Agent is tough, hard-edged, and gritty, and knows exactly how to bring in the ‘bad and on mean streets. guy.’ But when it comes to this new mystery, she’s racing headfirst into a truly personal area that will call up Murder, in this story of hideous memories from her past. financial intrigue at the highest levels, A while back, Caitlyn’s father committed suicide after he arrested his best friend for murder, which finds a comfortable nest in the glass is actually the one case that made Caitlyn head straight into law enforcement when she grew up. But now, towers and Fifth Avenue apartments history is coming back to haunt her. The one man she blames for her father’s unorthodox death comes to inhabited by the One Percent. her and asks for help in finding his missing daughter. Successful psychiatrist Ben This is a difficult case. Not only must Caitlyn face her demons but she also has to head back to her Cowper discovers life is cheap no hometown where the blood of a man she admired was spilled. The hometown is different than it once was; matter how impressive the address it has received a wealthy façade. But the same lies are still festering behind the elegant closed doors. What Caitlyn doesn’t know is that there is a villain who is sitting right there in the midst of money, power, and when disgraced mega-banker Harry greed who will do anything to stop her from finding out what really happened long ago. Shapiro is brought in by a wife fearful For those readers out there who are looking for chilling suspense, this is it. It’s not a surprise she will lose her husband to suicide. considering this author is an ER doctor who has helped police with various criminal cases. Because of Ben has seen this problem before. this background, combined with her amazing writing, these books offer in-depth looks into the minds of Harry is a narcissist and is distraught villain, victim, and hero. Enjoy! by the knowledge that the world does Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by not actually revolve around him and so Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ his world has crumbled around him. STALKED Harry and his wife Nora are major By Allison Brennan benefactors to the hospital where Lucy Kincaid has finally made it into the FBI Academy. After the ordeals she has been through, Ben hangs his shingle; something the this is a big milestone and she is determined to make it. She is being watched extremely close because of hospital director is quick to point out everything that has happened to her, sometimes maybe a bit too close. One instructor in particular seems to Ben as he begins to treat Harry. to have it in for her and she doesn’t know why. But when death by violent means An author/reporter is murdered and Lucy has ties to the case. The investigation goes all the way back to a case of a young girl’s rape and murder that occurred many years before. She was taken while her makes the scene, that same director, parents are hosting a swinger’s party and they threw the initial investigation off by lying about what they so supportive a few days before, makes were doing. Now everyone, including her younger brother Peter, who is tied to the case, seems to be in the it clear to Ben that her allegiance is crosshairs. to the hospital first. Did Ben err in Lucy’s boyfriend, a PI named Sean, helps her investigate along with friends from the FBI. She puts her his diagnosis of Harry? Is he, as the new career on the line to do the investigation, especially when it seems the murderer is within! district attorney suggests, liable for A riveting book that you will not be able to put down. Brennan knows suspense! what happened or is he being set up as Reviewed by Ashley Dawn, author of “Shadows of Pain,” for Suspense Magazine ■ the fall guy? DEATH OF YESTERDAY Perhaps holding the key to By M.C. Beaton the mystery is Anna, the pretty and Believe it or not, this is the twenty-ninth Hamish Macbeth mystery; and the one thing pony-tailed personal aid to Nora. It’s that can be said about this series is that it’s definitely NOT gotten old. This red-headed obvious to Ben that Anna would do police sergeant living in the small village of Lochdubh, Scotland is such a hoot and a howl anything for Nora. Anything? And that you never want to see this character come to an end. In this latest installment, Macbeth receives a complaint from art student, Morag what about Felix, the bank’s director of Merrilea. It seems that while she was in a pub and left the table for a moment, her public relations? How far would he go sketchbook was stolen. Hamish doesn’t exactly take to this woman, as she’s extremely critical to protect his employer’s reputation? of everything and everyone. He comes to think that Morag was in the pub drinking for some time, and Limousines leave their passengers what really happened is that she’d inhaled too much of the ‘happy juice’ and simply forgot about her book. to lunch at expensive restaurants. Whatever the truth may be, Hamish isn’t looking forward to dealing with this annoying woman. Sadly, he Private jets provide quick trips to doesn’t have to… London. High-end SUVs whisk the Morag soon turns up dead and Hamish and his underlings now have a much larger crime to solve. privileged to and from their East Having a highly intelligent mind and awesome instincts have made Hamish an ace detective, but his Hampton estates. There is a glossy immediate superior, Detective Chief Superintendent Blair, keeps ordering him to do menial tasks so that sheen to the world in which Ben finds Blair can take credit if anything breaks. But when a second victim is found, Macbeth comes under scrutiny, himself. But Ben discovers that threats, which makes Blair even more difficult to get along with. Hand-in-hand with the drama and action comes a new twist in Macbeth’s love life, which is always a even when veiled by the most graceful source of amusement for the citizens of Lochdubh. He has been engaged and ‘almost’ engaged a couple of manners, are threats nonetheless of times, so when his eye falls on the sister of a murder suspect, things definitely turn from bad to worse. and he wonders if he’ll survive. There’s never a dull moment in the life of Hamish Macbeth and, thankfully, this author keeps churning Reviewed by Andrew MacRae, author out books so Hamish’s fans can sit back and enjoy the fun. A+! of “Murder Misdirected” for Suspense Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “13: Tallent & Lowery Book One” published by Suspense Publishing, Magazine ■ an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 31 LIFE AFTER LIFE FUSE By Kate Atkinson By Julianna Baggott Kate Atkinson’s “Life After Life” is amazing, incredible, unique, extraordinary, page- turning, surprising, moving. Still all these superlatives fall short in their praise. It’s that special. Last year, I fell It’s a historic tale set during WWI and WWII. It’s a supernatural tale of reincarnation and in love with “Pure” an alternate history in part. It’s beautiful literature with sentences so poetic you read them and the marvelous more than once. And it’s a drama of secrets that unfolds so teasingly that you want to skip talent that is Julianna ahead so bad your fingers itch. But you dare not because Atkinson has framed and paced her Baggott. So my hand story so perfectly you know you’ll miss out. As you close the final page you want to start again. was firmly in the air for “Fuse,” Ursula Todd is born on February 11, 1910 to wealthy English parents, but dies immediately only to be part two of this dystopian trilogy. reborn again. This time she lives longer and we learn more about her life and family. But again she dies and In between the books, “Pure” has is reborn to a new life with slightly altered events. It is an era fraught with danger from illnesses, accidents, become an award-winning novel. and dangerous friends and strangers. In each new life, Ursula retains a déjà vu sense of her previous downfall The New York Times named it in its and is able to avoid those deaths only to face new challenges. Her deaths are varied and surprising and whilst ‘2012 Top 100 Notable Books’. It some lives are short, in others, she lives to middle-age. Atkinson’s mastery of pacing creates a marvelous was People Magazine’s pick for its rollercoaster ride, so we never really know when the next death will arrive. ‘“Still Hungry?” List—suggested Through Ursula and her family’s eyes, we experience life in early twentieth century England and the reading for “The Hunger Games” horror and tragedy of the two World Wars; once even behind the German lines up close and personal with fans. Entertainment Weekly picked Hitler. The detail is meticulous and the feeling of witnessing history uncanny. it for “Find Me a Twilight,” and the “Life After Life” is a thought-provoking rarity and sometimes these beauties cannot be analyzed. list goes on. It was even featured on Somewhere in the words, the emotions, in the ink on the page, a magic is born. On February 11, 1910, Suspense Magazine’s “Best Books of Ursula Todd is born, a classic wondrous character, surely to be loved by generations of readers. 2012.” Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinreading.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine ■ As Fox2000 has acquired the film rights, which Karen Rosenfelt, MURDER BELOW MONTPARNESSE the producer of The Twilight Saga By Carla Black films will produce, expect to hear a Cara Black has written a dozen books starring Parisian private detective and computer lot more of “Pure” in the future. security expert Aimee Leduc. In her newest case, Aimee is thrust into the deadly world of art Do you need to read “Pure” theft. to enjoy “Fuse”? Yes and you will In the early years of the 20th Century, Montparnasse was the home of artists and writers enjoy every minute of the catch- as well as displaced revolutionaries, especially those from Russia. A remnant from those days, up. In “Pure,” we met Baggott’s an old Russian named Yuri Volodya, requests Aimee’s help to protect a newly discovered finely imagined characters and the painting that might be an original Modigliani worth millions. But when she arrives to discuss the job, she devastating and mesmerizing post- finds the painting has already disappeared. Yuri instead wants Aimee to recover the painting. apocalyptic world of the Dome- Aimee is working short-handed as her good friend and hacker extraordinaire Rene Friant has flown to dwelling Pures, untouched by California to take a dream job in Silicon Valley. She’s quickly deprived of her other employee Saj when, as the Detonations. The survivors, they arrive to meet with Yuri, a Serbian stumbles in front of the car Saj is driving. He’s arrested by the police the Wretches, live outside in the for hitting and killing the man. Aimee, though, wonders if the Serbian might have played a part in the theft wasteland, scarred by horrible of the Modigliani. fusions of whatever object they were The next day, Yuri is found tortured and murdered. As Aimee seeks to recover the painting, every nearest during the detonations; dolls lead she follows seems to produce another dead body. Aimee must negotiate a trail that takes her from the heads fused to wrists, wings fused to old streets of Montparnasse to the new world of Russian oligarchs. More disconcerting to Aimee is the backs, babies fused to hips, and even possibility that her mother, who abandoned her twenty years earlier when she was tied to terrorists and who a boy fused on his brother’s back. has been on Interpol’s most wanted list ever since, may be involved in the case—possibly as Yuri’s killer. In “Fuse,” Baggott hits the Black’s writing is wonderfully evocative, making you feel like you’re walking on the streets of Paris with ground running as the determined Aimee or ducking into a bistro with her. Even if you haven’t read any of the previous books, you can jump group of Partridge, Pressia, Lyda, into the series with this novel without much effort, and with the reward of reading a wonderfully crafted and and Bradwell embark on a plan to save the Wretches from the involving mystery. Dome-dwellers who are intent on Reviewed by David Ingram for Suspense Magazine ■ wiping them out. Told via multiple PARALLAX VIEW perspectives, our heroes separate on By Allan Leverone various quests. Partridge returns to “Parallax View” takes place in the late 80s during the cold war and prior to the fall of the Dome to confront his dictator the Soviet Union. Mikhail Gorbachev has handwritten a document intended for President Father Willux. Pressia, El Capitan, Ronald Reagan. It was passed to CIA Agent Tracie Tanner and her mission is to take it out of and Bradwell embark on an odyssey East Berlin and deliver it to President Reagan. for the antidote to reverse the The B-52 Air Force plane that Tanner is flying in crashes just short of the runway at the Wretches disfigurements and Lyda Bangor Maine Airport. On his way to work, Air Traffic Controller Shane Rowley sees the joins the savage Mothers. crash, investigates, and pulls Tracie out, saving her life. During the FAA investigation of the crash, the two “Fuse” thrusts us deeper into witness the murders of the investigators and local law enforcement by a KGB hit squad, but were able to Baggott’s horrifying future vision escape. Realizing their life is in danger and not trusting any CIA contact, Tracie opens and reads the Top and expands the central characters Secret Document. She reads that there will be an assassination attempt on President Reagan. Shane and without slackening the pace. On Tracie go on the run from both law enforcement and the KGB hit squad. After making contact with her CIA the final page, we are left hanging Handler, Winston Andrews, Tracie believes that she may not be able to trust him. His comments make her precariously over a literary cliff, think he may be working with the KGB. Tanner and Rowley are on their own and the time is getting closer but if anyone can leave you gladly for the assassination attempt. dangling, it’s Julianna Baggott and A fast paced and easy flowing story that has an unexpected ending. It is intriguing and keeps you her band of extraordinary “Pure” wondering how the two principals will solve the mystery of who they can trust, avoid being killed themselves, heroes. deliver the document to President Reagan, and stop his assassination. Reviewed by Susan May http:// Would I recommend this book? Simply YES! anadventureinreading.blogspot. Reviewed by Jerry Zavada for Suspense Magazine ■ com.au/ ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 32 SHEDDING LIGHT THE CARRION BIRDS ON MURDER By Urban Waite By Patricia Driscoll Ray Lamar is returning home to Coronado, Mexico, for the first time in ten years, hoping to see his son, who he left behind with his father. Ray had never really recovered from losing Cape Cod, its his wife in a mysterious car crash all those years ago. He suspected she was killed as a message, people, its land and because Ray worked for Memo, part of a family of drug runners. He’d gotten his cousin Tom, water, its winter then the sheriff, tangled up in it, a woman died, and Tom’s career in law enforcement was over. snow all take center Ten years older, Ray’s tired of the dangerous life he leads and wants to see if he has a chance to stage in this well- get things right. All he needs to do is just one more job for Memo. But Memo sends along his nephew, Sanchez, plotted and well- who talks a much bigger game than he can play, and from the beginning the job begins to unravel. cast cozy novel. It’s a nice set-up, building slowly, and Waite takes the time to develop his characters and the atmosphere After a career of the American Southwest. Occasionally his art exceeds his craft, and a sentence trying just a little too hard as a probation officer, Grace to be evocative instead becomes confusing, but that’s a nitpick in this engaging crime novel. The characters Tolliver has bought Pearl’s are interesting and believable, and more and more of them are drawn into the mess that Ray and Sanchez Antique Lamps and Shades in the have created. Ray keeps trying to fix it, but there are too many variables, and the past weighs too heavily on all picturesque village of Barnstable. involved. Christmas is coming fast and Soon men from the cartel are coming up from Mexico, Tom is unofficially helping the sheriff who replaced Grace and her employees are him, and the violence is spinning out of control. Ray is a tragic character, and the reader sympathizes with under the gun to prepare the shop his plight even as it drives him to more killing. Waite turns up the heat chapter by chapter, twist by twist, a and its merchandise for the town’s slow-burn pace that keeps the pages turning toward an explosive confrontation that seems both inevitable and holiday celebration. Even with surprising. Flawed characters and exciting bursts of action make for a satisfying story that’s thoughtful and the pressure, Grace is happy with entertaining—and well worth reading. the change she has made in her Reviewed by Scott Pearson, author of “Star Trek: Honor in the Night” and cohost of the Generations Geek life and happy to put the world of podcast for Suspense Magazine ■ crime and criminals behind her. Or at least she thought she had. MICRO One of her customers is By Michael Crichton and Richard Preston murdered and the evidence It could be argued that Michael Crichton created the techno-thriller with his first bestseller, points toward Duane Kerbey, “The Andromeda Strain,” in 1969. Authors from Robin Cook to James Rollins have followed the the young man Grace hired to path he blazed. Most bestselling writers have a couple of books they’re working on at any time. run errands. Because Duane has When Crichton died in 2008, he’d made substantial progress on a new thriller, “Micro.” His a police record, handsome police estate hired Richard Preston (“The Hot Zone”) to finish the novel. detective Andre Cruz believes The Honolulu police discover three dead men in a locked room with their throats cut. It they’ve found their man. But would be murder, except the blood splatter evidence shows that no one was standing near them to deliver the Grace believes Duane is innocent cuts. It would be suicide, except there are no knives in the room. and sets out to prove it. Seven Harvard graduate students, specialists in their fields, are recruited by Vin Drake, the CEO of a Helping Grace in both the company that is exploring using extracts from plants and bugs in Hawaii to create new drug treatments. One shop and in her detective work of the students, Peter Jensen, has a brother who is a brilliant physicist and who is already working for the is Bella Benson, eighty-years-old, company. Just before the students come to Hawaii for a visit, Peter gets a text from his brother telling him not handy with a soldering iron, and to come. He then hears from the police that his brother has been lost at sea off Hawaii’s coast. When Peter and the other students arrive in Hawaii, Peter confronts Drake with evidence he has uncovered that his brother’s afraid of no one. Also helping loss was not an accident. Grace in his own elfin way is The students find themselves thrust into a deadly environment where dangers arise without warning. Michael Shipworth, another They must use all of their combined knowledge in order to survive and find a way to safety. Their enemies are employee. relentless and their time is running out. Adding to Grace’s problems Crichton meticulously researched his books (as evidenced by the pages of bibliography at the end of is her aging father, Thomas. “Micro”) and then pushed the science just beyond what is possible today. Preston has done an excellent job He is trying to hold onto his keeping Crichton’s style intact so that the narrative races along. “Micro” is a final gift to Crichton’s millions of independence even as a series of fans. misadventures shows Grace he Reviewed by David Ingram for Suspense Magazine ■ has to let go. While at the other end of the age spectrum is Sophie, MAD RIVER a cat-loving little girl who tends to By John Sandford wander away from home. I was excited to discover “Mad River” in my review box. Sandford has been a favorite author of mine Murder in a small town for years. I settled in to read the latest Virgil Flowers mystery and wasn’t disappointed. This one is not for leaves no one untouched as the fainthearted and with Sandford’s straightforward, no nonsense storytelling, you know you’re going to get action and controversy, and this latest one racks up the body count. everyone has ties to everyone else. Only hours after returning from his vacation, Bureau of Criminal Apprehension investigator Virgil Flowers Grace soon finds herself a target is called to western Minnesota to follow up on a pair of murders. Before he can even get settled into the case he of whispers and sidelong looks discovers more bodies and the chase is on. Three desperate youths are on the run with money and guns, blazing as people begin to blame her a trail of murder in their escape. Virgil always seems a step or two behind by increments and starts to close the for hiring Duane and indirectly net. However, he doesn’t realize how far the killers will go to escape...or what measures the cops causing the murder. Before long, will take to catch them. In addition, Virgil has the gnawing problem that one of the early victims Grace realizes that the fate of may not have been as random as first thought. her small shop depends on her Sandford never lets up. He’s always moving, pushing you forward through the story with “Shedding Light on Murder.” barely a moment’s breather before he throws you into more action. I love it. I’ve enjoyed his Reviewed by Andrew MacRae, Davenport series and quickly became a fan of Flowers. Don’t let this one get by you. Go mad author of “Murder Misdirected” with “Mad River” and discover how wild Minnesota can get. for Suspense Magazine ■ Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Beta” for Suspense Magazine ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 33 SILVER CROSS OUTRAGEOUS By B. Kent Anderson OCTOBER It starts with a present day murder in North Carolina. But it really starts in Civil War By Barbara Levenson just off the coast of North Carolina. Actually, it starts with a plan hatched by Napoleon III in 1862 to try to repair financial problems of France. Confused yet? Don’t worry because This is the third this is an adventure to span the decades. From North Carolina to Texas, from Michigan to in Levenson’s mystery the Berkshires, and of course, don’t forget about shadowy players lurking in the secret halls series featuring Mary of Washington, D.C. Katz, a lawyer living in Ann Tolman: Deputy Director of Research and Investigations. Nick Journey: history professor. Miami and another tale Tolman learns of a friend’s death in Wilmington and an enigmatic phrase ‘the rose and the silver cross.’ no suspense lover will Teaming up with Journey, they proceed to unravel a mystery concerning a Confederate spy and a deal forget. with Napoleon III to obtain troops and material. However, there are other players in the game, including Most women an assassin trying to avenge herself of her employers’ double cross. Who’s scamming who? How does a can agree that it would be beyond terrorist group blowing up federal buildings around the country fit into the scheme? It’s a complex puzzle entertaining to have a hot Latin lover, and if Tolman and Journey don’t find the answers, more people are going to die. but when Mary Katz actually finds This is not your usual straightforward good vs. evil adventure story. I love these types of books, but found this one even better than expected because of the political shenanigans and the infighting from the hers—a man by the name of Carlos— bad guys. Plus, there’s fact mixed in with fiction which is always a winner. “Silver Cross” is on my bookshelf enjoying dinner with his ex-wife, let’s and should be on yours. say that the entertainment is literally Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Beta” for Suspense Magazine ■ sucked out of the relationship. Mary is not a happy camper after seeing HEART OF ICE this little tete-a-tete, and she decides By P.J. Parrish to take a vacation away from it all—a Mackinaw Island in northern Michigan is the setting for this enthralling mystery, chance to heal and think about what the latest Louis Kincaid novel by P.J. Parrish. The writing team of P.J. Parrish has crafted a comes next in her love life. murder mystery with enough plot twists to keep you turning the pages. But added to that, Traveling to a friend’s summer the characters are as real as your next door neighbors. house, Mary chooses to bring only Louis Kincaid is a P.I. with a past, who wants to return to police work, but his life is one companion—her German complicated when he learns that he has a daughter, who is now all of ten years old. When Shepherd named Sam. She and Sam Kincaid’s young daughter falls into a pile of bones while exploring an abandoned house on the island, the hit the road, heading for High Pines, search is on to identify the skeleton and determine if the remains indicate an accidental death or a murder Vermont. After all, when your heart victim. When the police realize that the skeleton is missing the skull, it looks more and more like murder. is broken a little change of scenery is And when a woman who went missing in 1969 becomes the most likely victim, Kincaid, who is not even always a good thing…right? licensed to work as an investigator in Michigan, is asked to work the case. He has developed a reputation Upon arrival, Mary and Sam for solving cold cases, and this murder, if that is what it was, fits his skills perfectly. discover some rather strange goings- The social classes at Mackinaw of the late 1960s still intrude on Kincaid’s investigation, and the chasm on at the house, learning that a murder between the rich families in their summer homes and the locals who manned the ice cream stands and occurred in the dwelling a year before. waited tables is still an issue. As Kincaid discovers, ruthlessness and ambition can cut across all classes, Mary is a lawyer and more than a little and love can bridge a gap of geography and time. The title “Heart of Ice” fits perfectly with the cold of a bit nosy, so she starts to investigate the northern Michigan winter, and the cold of emotions and secrets kept for a generation. unsolved case. But there is someone in Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, author of “Lydia’s Story” for Suspense Magazine ■ the Green Mountain area who doesn’t appreciate her interest. WIDOW'S TEARS: A CHINA BAYLES MYSTERY Meeting up with a local lawyer, By Susan Wittig Albert China Bayles is back, and Susan Wittig Albert makes sure to keep this character in ‘top form’ and give Dash, Mary is soon talked into doing a her fans an extremely awesome story. little legal work for him, and also visits China Bayles is a former criminal defense attorney in Houston, Texas who wants a quieter life—leaving a Florida neighbor who is attending the law behind to start an herb shop in Pecan Springs. She’s married to Mike McQuaid, a former Houston college not far from Mary’s vacation detective now a faculty member at Central Texas University who runs his own private investigation agency. home. Mary becomes involved in This new tale, however, begins September 1900 in Galveston, where Rachel Blackwood wakes up to a the kidnapping of a young girl, while disturbing natural disaster that’s coming straight for her. Rachel’s husband has left for work at the bank and still looking into the cold case that the family is working on plans for her son’s birthday party. With the storm coming into the Gulf that will surrounds her vacation home. supposedly devastate their city, Rachel is suddenly stuck in a nightmare where she could lose everything Readers will be thrilled, seeing as to a hurricane. that old Mary never takes a breather, In present-day Texas, China’s friend and business partner, Ruby (who has the gift of ESP), is getting allowing for many twists and turns ready for a short vacation. Her friend inherits a house she wants to turn into a B&B, but is concerned that to appear in the ever-changing plot. the house is haunted and wants Ruby to check it out. While Ruby and her friend are ghost hunting, China As always, Mary is a very charming goes to the bank with a deposit and walks straight into a robbery and murder of a bank employee. China is character and it’s even hard to dislike soon heading to the ‘haunted house’ to speak with Ruby and ends up being pulled into a ‘ghostly’ mystery. the bad guys, as Levenson once again The house Ruby’s visiting is a replica of the Blackwood House that was lost in the offers a delightful mystery. 1900 Galveston hurricane. There may be some ghosts hanging around, but far worse are Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author a couple of flesh-and-blood criminals who are present and won’t be stopped as easily as a of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & spirit would. A great cliffhanger with seriously nail-biting scenes, this is one China Bayles’ Lowery Book Two” published by Mystery you don’t want to miss. Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” Suspense Magazine ■ published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 34 WHERE PSYCHOS: SERIAL KILLERS, DEPRAVED MADMEN, YOU CAN AND THE CRIMINALLY INSANE FIND ME Edited by John Skipp By Sheri Joseph Stephen King is arguably one of the master storytellers of our time. Yet even he felt he’d fallen out of touch with short story fiction in 2006 when invited to edit ‘The Best American Short Stories 2007.’ In this novel In an interview promoting his own collection, ‘Just After Sunset,’ inspired by his editing of the volume, he of suspense, the said, “People have forgotten how to read the short story. They’ve fallen out of love with the short story. People are reader enters too lazy to pick up a short story and start over and over again. It’s (too much of) a grab bag.’ into the Vincent family at an John Skipp, editor of “Psychos-Serial Killers, Depraved Madman and the Criminally Insane” certainly unfortunate moment. Their ensures it is not a grab bag. He knows something about great short stories, with his first published short story in ordeal seems over, but it has just The Twilight Zone magazine in 1982. He’s a New York Times bestselling author and has co-authored over a dozen begun. The fourteen-year-old successful horror novels, “Psychos” being his third anthology with publisher Black Dog and “Leventhal” in the son, Caleb, was kidnapped three fantasy-horror genre. So he has credibility in choosing a gripping yarn. These stories will restore your faith in the short narrative. Some will stick in your mind, even if you don’t years ago and, now recovered want them there. These are thirty-eight gems that will keep you reading like the addiction that follows that first from his imprisonment, rejoins black jelly-bean. Your need for ‘just one more’ will keep you up into the psycho-prowling wee hours. the family. There is, of course, You will meet perfectly normal people—you’ll think at first—that hide twisted, dark secrets. And you will no way for them to return to meet normal people who don’t realize they have crossed evil’s pathway. Dark humor and light prose dance in the way they were before. The perfect combination. Alongside, genre royalty of Neil Gaimin, Thomas Harris, Ray Bradbury, and Edgar Allan parents, Marlene and Jeff, and Poe, Skipp has included some astonishingly polished emerging authors. the sister, Lark, who is eleven— The pleasure of reading a good story is that you don’t want it to end. The wonderful thing with “Psychos” at the age Caleb was when he over six hundred pages, there are plenty of beginnings. was kidnapped—spend a Reviewed by Susan May http://susanmaywordadventures.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine ■ considerable amount of time TUESDAY'S GONE trying, though. By Nicci French The story deals with Psychotherapist Dr. Frieda Klein, is back and readers/fans will learn quite quickly that this is difficult subject matter, child a riveting sequel! sex abuse, which the four A social worker is making a routine visit and finds her client, Michelle Doyce, serving tea family members each dance to a decomposing corpse—not exactly something you’d expect. Detective Inspector Malcolm around in their own ways. The Karlsson is assigned to this strange case and has to deal with the fact that this client is a mental true situation, which the FBI health patient who was “released back into the community.” Even though most would consider is trying to ferret out, starts to Michelle to be the perpetrator of the crime, she is actually dumbfounded about the body found in reveal itself, gradually. Cracks her flat and can barely speak. in the post-kidnapping, happy- So once again, the Inspector asks Frieda for help, getting her to speak to Michelle to get to the bottom of the family façade appear and widen eerie case. As the investigation moves forward, the police fail to find clues as to who the body might be, and they in spite of attempts to plaster certainly cannot deal with Michelle. Frieda, however, is not accepting of the way Michelle is treated and decides over them. Lark has been sent to search for the corpse’s identity herself. Dr. Klein, Karlsson, and DC Yvette Long form a reluctant trio as they to a private school to shield search for answers to the odd questions, while having to deal with a management consultant who is tagging along her from the media attention, to report to the ‘higher-ups’ about the economical aspects of the whole investigation. which has intensified with When Dr. Klein discovers that the body is that of Robert Poole—a well-known con man with a past— things get even stranger. Paranoia sets in and Frieda’s own past issues come back to haunt her. Readers will hang Caleb’s return. Most of the on pins and needles as it all plays out. time they are prisoners in their The plotting is fast-paced with surprises galore, and characters literally come to life on the pages. The own home, besieged by media previous novel featuring Dr. Klein, “Blue Monday,” made Frieda a household name, and much of the first story attention and publicity. is intertwined with this one. In the end, when readers are through, they will find themselves waiting impatiently Jeff’s mother, Grandma for Wednesday to arrive! Vincent, went to live in the Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “13: Tallent & Lowery Book One” published by Suspense Publishing, an cloud forest in Costa Rica well imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ before the abduction. Marlene decides it would be good to get A TRACE OF SMOKE away from the publicity and By Rebecca Cantrell that Costa Rica might be a place Crime reporter of the Berliner Tageblatt, Hannah Vogel, masquerades under the name Peter where her children could lead Weill to disguise the fact that the tough-writing hardened journalist is really only a woman, while more normal lives. However, her brother Anton disguises his manhood in the guise of a flamboyant cross-dressing lounge singer some of their problems follow performing in the fashionable gay clubs of Berlin in the early 1930s. them there, other newer ones When Hannah recognizes her brother’s photograph on display in the Hall of The Unnamed reveal themselves. Dead in the basement of the Berlin police station, she is thrown in a mystery. It will take every I like how the reader is ounce of the investigative reporter she really wants to be in order to discover how her younger brother’s body privy to the inner working of the ended up in the river and placed alongside all the other unidentified bodies found by the police. individuals. The struggle of each Fired from her job and on the run from Hitler’s storm troopers, her investigation leads her to top ranking one is well-drawn and the reader gay Nazi party leaders such as Ernst Rohm. She attempts to blackmail Rohm over sexually graphic letters she pulls, throughout, for them to discovered in her brother’s possession in order to coerce the truth while kidnapping a young boy that Rohm is work through the problems that using in order to present his more austere front. look insurmountable. This is an Historically correct in the treatment of its setting from places to dates and politics to dramatics, “A Trace of intense read, well worth it. Smoke” sucks you in like an unfiltered cigarette, burns as you breathe it out, but ultimately satisfies like only a Reviewed by Kaye George, true mystery can. Author of “Broke” for Suspense Reviewed by Mark Sadler, author of “Blood on his Hands” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Magazine ■ Suspense Magazine ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 35 SO PRETTY IT HURTS THE BOYFRIEND By Kate White By Thomas Perry It is never a surprise to write a review that states, “Kate White is a great author.” In fact…we should all know that by now. When a beautiful young Bailey Weggins is a true crime writer who has just gotten a book published, but her small woman named Catherine is publisher hasn’t promoted the book and it’s sitting in the proverbial basement at Amazon. It’s why killed in her home, and time Bailey is also employed as a reporter at Buzz, a celebrity magazine, doing her best to afford food goes by with no progress on and rent until her book takes off. She is, however, lucky in love at the moment. the case, her parents come to PI Unfortunately, her ‘beau,’ Beau Regan, has just announced that he has to be away for the weekend to shoot a Jack Till for help. Jack is a retired documentary, causing Bailey’s imagination to run wild, upset that Beau won’t be with her on this winter weekend LAPD homicide detective, and so close to Christmas. he’s enjoyed the non-violent Accepting an invitation from her pal, Jessie, Bailey heads to a house in the country for a calming weekend. work that comes with being What she walks into is something far different. Scott Cohen, a record producer, is throwing a party with his a PI. He reluctantly agrees to number one guest being Devon Barr, a supermodel. Devon arrives with her agent and his wife, a model friend, try to find out what happened an ex-boyfriend rocker, and a ‘cast’ of many more. Devon is about to come out with an album for Scott and the to Catherine. Unfortunately, party is to introduce her as a singer. Catherine was a high class A huge snowstorm hits that keeps the guests confined. When a scream happens in the night and Devon’s escort, and her profession leaves dead body is found, the police believe that death occurred from complications due to the model’s anorexia…but the field of suspects wide open. Bailey is convinced there’s much more to the story. When Jack begins Turning into the ‘star reporter’ who won’t stop until she finds the truth, Bailey will keep the reader guessing researching the modern world as they gasp for breath and even have a few laughs while watching Bailey’s antics in the snow-covered house that’s of escorts, he’s overwhelmed holding a murderer within its walls. at first, but after using his Another A+ for Kate White! considerable police contacts Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense to see if there have been other Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ girls killed in such a manner, he soon discovers a pattern: A THE FIRST HORSEMAN few strawberry blonde escorts By Clem Chambers have been victims of similar When it comes to medicine, innovations, inventions, and attempting to find a way where we crimes, but they’re in different can live longer and happier lives, this is one book that touches on all of these subjects and will cities. The killer seems very cold make readers wonder if eternal life is really all it’s cracked up to be. and organized, and soon Jack There is a certain something in our bodies called telomeres. If they were repaired and realizes that the killer’s focus rejuvenated we could, perhaps, be able to exist forever. But this author has done an amazing job may not solely be on the girls, showing us just how much this already overcrowded planet could really take. but maybe a means to an end. Meet Jim Evans; he has made a fortune during his lifetime by getting involved in various investment Is the motive money, revenge, opportunities. He is now sitting in the lap of luxury, basically facing semi-retirement, and wants to use his or something significantly more assets to fund research that will save lives. He decides to put up money for a project being run by a Cambridge diabolical? Professor; this particular project is not only another anti-aging product, it’s actually an anti-death product. In While Jack is following the other words, this professor is claiming he can grant one and all eternal life. Trouble is, no one has lived long increasing trail of bodies, we enough to prove that his product works. get to know a man named Joey The anti-death ‘potion’ coming out of the professor’s lab is incredibly youth restoring…at first. However, Moreland who’s handsome, the long-term results are definitely not so grand. The professor, Christopher Cardini, is what you would call a intelligent, and a hit man. The ‘never-say-die’ guy who continues to stand by the fact that he can change the world through cell therapy and narrative deftly switches back make the old, young again. and forth between Joey and Jim soon finds out that his money will help the project, but will most definitely not be enough to buy Jack, and we get to know how protection from a twisted professor, who shows the horrific reality of what could happen to our world if we Joey became the capable killer simply turned back time. he is today. Unfortunately, as This is a true battle between a mad scientist versus a Jason Bourne, wannabe…and reallya great one! sharp as Jack is, Joey has quite a Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense few resources available to him, Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ and it always seems like Jack is two steps behind. THE WALNUT TREE The author not only moves By Charles Todd things along at a feverish pace, During World War I, Lady Elspeth is in Paris awaiting the birth of a friend’s baby when the he makes you care about the invasion changes the war. Her friend’s brother, Alain asks for her hand in marriage before leaving characters, especially Jack and for the war, but nothing is formal because he has not had the chance to speak to her guardian his daughter, Holly, who is in and ask for her hand. She accepts the proposal, but it is to be kept secret until it can be handled her twenties and has Down formally. Syndrome. His tenderness with As she leaves France, she meets up with an old family friend, Peter Gilchrist who saves her her gives him a depth that so and attracts her. She ends up nursing wounded soldiers and finds herself changed because of this. many characters of this kind Doing this is ‘below’ her as an upper class lady, so she hides her title and enters a nursing school. Her guardian lack. It’s also evident in his would have denied her this, but she has to do it. She would be considered unacceptable as a wife for a gentleman protectiveness over the killer’s after, but that doesn’t stop her. targets in spite of their choices. As her life moves forward, she can’t help but think about the two men she prays come through the war. A tight, fast moving plot and Alain, her intended whom she is devoted to, and Peter who she is immensely attracted to and cannot keep from relentless attention to detail her thoughts. make “The Boyfriend” a must This is an intriguing perspective on the First World War and how the different classes still held on to their read for fans of thrillers and views. Lady Elspeth was an exceptional character to get to know! procedurals alike. Reviewed by Ashley Dawn, author of “Shadows of Suspicion” published by Suspense Publishing an imprint of Reviewed by Kristin Centorcelli Suspense Magazine ■ for Suspense Magazine ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 36 WHAT'S A WITCH TO DO? By Jennifer Harlow In Goodnight, Virginia there is a witch who has a busy life. Between raising her younger sister’s kids to being the High Priestess of the largest coven in North America, Mona McGregor is exhausted. She’s called on 24/7 by other witches who need her help; she owns the Magic Shop in town; she’s putting a wedding together; she’s setting up the Founder’s Day events; and has a long ‘To Do’ list every day. One night Mona gets a knock on her door and practically passes out. On her doorstep is Adam Blue, a werewolf who has been injured and needs her help. She’s known Adam since they were young. And the witches, werewolves, and vamps have their own Preternatural Co-Op (PCO), which try to get together during the year and keep up a good working relationship. Adam is away from his pack in Maryland and begs Mona to help save his life. In addition, he asks her not to tell the Alpha of his pack that he’s there. Although Mona is frightened, she helps Adam and finds out something terrible. Adam was actually given the job of hitman—someone wants Mona dead and they’ve taken out a contract on her life. With everything else that’s going on, now Mona has to worry about the kids with a werewolf in the house, nosy neighbors, a family tree that is lager than a mob family, and deal with a werewolf who now wants to be her bodyguard who she’s extremely attracted to, while suddenly having to study everyone in order to try and figure out who wants her dead. This has it all! Suspense, mystery, fantasy, characters that are completely unforgettable, and a hot romance, as well as a truly strong and hysterical main character! Everyone will love “Aunt Mona” and will want to see this character again and again. What better way to praise this novel than to say: this is one WICKED story! Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint ofSuspense Magazine ■ THE STORYTELLER By Jodi Picoult How does one explain a story full of a tortuous accounting of monstrous acts? Picoult manages to weave this tale with extraordinary, but too true, data from an era gone but never forgotten. Sage Singer is just a baker, or at least that’s what we initially see her as. She becomes more, a confidant, a granddaughter of a Holocaust survivor, and Josef Weber’s last hope of redemption. But even Weber isn’t who he originally appears to be. He asks Sage to do something abhorrent: he wants her to both forgive him and kill him. Sage—with the help of DOJ Leo Stein—digs out what she believes to be the real facts about Weber, who he really is. She is faced with a decision that will affect the rest of her life. After everything she unearths about Weber, can she really kill him? Will it haunt her as Weber’s life haunted him? Thrown into the mix is Sage’s love affair with a married man, Adam. Not only does she have to deal with Weber’s deceit and murderous actions, she also has to face up to what her relationship with Adam really is and choose to move on. Although very well-written, “The Storyteller” is emotionally disturbing in many parts. It made me cry then smile then cry again. Picoult’s words are nothing less than mesmeric and when you read the last page, you will shut the book and cry again. Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of “The Other Side: Melinda’s Story” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ THE LLAMA OF DEATH By Betty Webb The first line in this newGunn Zoo Mystery captures the reader instantly: “Alejandro, you spit in my face!” Is there a more perfect retort to a llama that is just slightly miffed with his zookeeper? Alejandro is our star, a llama who resides at the Gunn Zoo. He’s a favorite of the children who love to ride on the white beast and are NOT the recipients of his nasty spitting attacks. The zookeeper, Theodora “Teddy” Bentley, has been asked to take Alejandro to the Monterey Bay Renaissance Faire and Alejandro, who loves children, is having a ball. Teddy? Not so much. It’s not as if Teddy has nothing else to do besides babysit Alejandro, she also has a weekly TV program called, Anteaters to Zebras, and still has to clean cages and feed the rest of the animals. Of course, to make matters worse, she has to dress up in medieval clothes and lead Alejandro around for the children to ride. One night, Teddy is jolted awake by Alejandro’s screams. Running to the area, she discovers the body of the Reverend Victor Emerson and fears that he has been stomped to death. Upon closer examination by the police, they find that the ‘holy’ man was killed by a crossbow bolt right through the neck. This vindicates Alejandro, but Teddy’s fiancé, the sheriff, is away on a national security job and his ‘not-very-bright-deputy’ is left handling the case. The acting sheriff soon arrests Teddy’s mother and charges her with the murder, but Teddy is determined that her mother not go to jail for a crime she did not commit and starts her own investigation. A very long list of (fun) suspects arise as this mystery moves forward. And all that can be said is Teddy’s a hero and Alejandro…well, he teaches one and all how to duck! This is a humorous mystery that you will absolutely love! Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 37 Movies THE HOST 2013 Genre – Action/Adventure (PG-13) Stephenie Meyer, the author of the best-selling Twilight Saga books has done for young female readers and their mothers what Harry Potter did for nine-year olds. It got them to read—no mean feat in this technology age where interacting with fantasy worlds with thumbs is considered more exciting than words and imagination. The Host, directed and adapted by Andrew Niccol is not a film for the discerning filmgoer who desires a deep, well-fashioned script with masterful sub-plots. It’s not aimed at cinephiles like Twilight but at the fans. Our heroine Melanie (Saoirse Ronan) is thrown into conflict when Earth is invaded by an alien race. The invaders don’t arrive with laser guns and drones, but instead gently place their souls inside their hosts, taking over their bodies. They are ‘peaceful’ beings creating harmony and balance in the human race. When Melanie, one of the last remaining humans, is captured and receives the soul of Wanderer (Wanda), she refuses to relinquish her body to the invader. So begins a tussle of spirit (and voiceover). Before her capture, Melanie was on the run with her brother Jamie (Chandler Canterbury) and another survivor Jared Howe (Max Irons). Jared and Melanie become lovers and it is this love, and her promise to Jamie that she will return to him, that imbues her with the strength to fight Wanda’s control. Wanda finds that she cannot inhabit Melanie’s body without being moved by strong emotions and memories. This desire causes them to set out on a dangerous journey to reunite with Melanie’s loved ones. What they find will not be the joyful reunion either imagined. If you are not a fan of YA books and the fantasy genre, then this film is not for you. However, there are a lot more like this on the way with three more ‘Hunger Games’ adaptations, “Warm Bodies,” “Divergent,” and “Pure,” to name a few. So get used to the idea of star-crossed supernatural romances. There is an invasion coming to a box-office near you and it will be hard to avoid. Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine  THE CROODS 2013: Genre – Animation/Adventure (PG) From the creators of Madagascar comes this animation of the stone-age family, The Croods. Dad, Grug (Nicholas Cage), keeps the family safe by insisting they staying hidden in their cave, whilst his headstrong daughter, Eep (Emma Stone), wants to explore the world. When Eep meets a lone cave- man, Guy (Ryan Reynolds), the Croods discover their world is bigger than they imagined and about to change. When their cave is destroyed, the Croods embark on quite the adventure where they must rewrite the rules that have kept them alive. It’s a beautifully animated film and all the kids that watched with me loved it. It’s funny, colourful and the voice talent is perfect. Parents, cute as it looks, you will dig it and so will the littlies. TRANCE 2013: Genre – Crime/Thriller (R) Trance is a thriller that keeps you guessing even after it’s over. When an art auctioneer Simon (James McAVoy) gets mixed up in an art heist, he loses his memory after being clocked by one of the thieves. The thieves’ ringleader Franck (Vincent Cassel) then enlists a hypnotherapist (Rosario Dawson) to unlock the location of the stolen valuable painting that Simon has hidden. Whilst the twists and turns are brilliant, the ending is rather mind-boggling. Is it all a dream? No, no, that was Inception. Or is he dead? No, no, that was Lost. Is the bad guy really the good guy? No, no, that was Bourne Identity. Does the guy have a split personality? No, no, that was Fight Club. Awww heck, I don’t know what it was about. See for yourself. JURASSIC PARK 3D 1993: Genre – Crime/Thriller (R) You know the story from this classic 1993 film. So, there are no spoilers when I share that the dinosaurs still eat the people. Some of these re-releases in 3D really show the wrinkles around their edges. However, Stephen Spielberg has always been a master and Jurassic Park 3D proves it. In 3D IMAX you will marvel at the realism of these creatures created with twenty-year-old CGI technology. Here’s hoping Jurassic Park IV in 2014 will prove a worthy successor. The story of a seriously ambitious billionaire who clones dinosaurs that end up escaping and eating the visitors is still an action-packed thrill ride. Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine 

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 38

For me, a fantasy world is primarily“ an “escape to another world, an imaginary world in which there are no rules.

Featured Artist Paulina Januszek Not Afraid of New Challenges Coraline http://alephunky.deviantart.com Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 40 rt comes in many forms, whether on the canvas, in a book, with a photo, Aor with electronic graphic art. Our magazine has been honored to have some great artists sharing their work with you, the fans to see how the mind of an artist works and bringing their imagination to life. This month bring us Paulina Januszek aka Amiltarea, a self-taught artist from Poland. She discovered her passion for digital art and photography in 2011. Her digital artistry focuses mainly on the imagination and she tries to show the beauty in various incarnations of good and evil. Her special taste is for fantasy, gothic, and emotional art. Her style is characterized by the use of fairytale elements, the Victorian era, foggy environments, dark forests, and vibrant colors. The secret of her artworks is to use the greatest range of colors, lights, and shadow. Themes of the books and songs are her inspirations to create works. Art, for her, is what creates a gateway to another world, a world of imagination. She says that every person has talent, and no one should be afraid of new challenges. Authors, she said, might not be able to draw a stick figure, but they can put their imagination into words; however, when an artist is able to take the pictures in their mind and bring them to life, something special happens. Paulina Januszek took some time away from her imagination to sit down with us and let us into her world.

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): When did you first realize you had a passion for art?

Paulina Januszek (P.J.): My passion for art started with photography. I took amateur photos. Then I discovered a passion for making photo montages. I started with the simple things like easy photo retouching. It helped me when my interest for digital art began to grow. Every day I’m trying to be better. All the time I’m trying to find new opportunities in graphic programs, and art for me is a break from everyday life.

S. MAG.: Of all your pieces, which is your favorite and why?

P.J.: I really love any kind. Each type is different, but I think my favorite is fantasy. For me, a fantasy world is primarily an escape to another world, an imaginary world in which there are no rules.

S. MAG.: What is your biggest challenge professionally?

P.J.: Continuing on what I’m doing now and developing my style. I want to become more professional each day.

S. MAG.: What is the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given? Would you give that same advice to someone new to the artistic realm or would you revise it based on your personal experiences?

P.J.: I heard from one person, “Don’t be limited, you must be open to others, deviating from normal.” I realize that digital art is quite controversial. Some people think that’s artificial, but I think that what is different attracts attention. We shouldn’t be afraid of new challenges and should be immune to criticism. I would like to think that jealousy didn’t exist among artists, and that we should support each other, but the reality is unfortunately different.

S. MAG.: What color do you love working with the most?

P.J.: I love using shades of blue. That is my favorite color. It gives the impression of freshness and mystery.

S. MAG.: Have you ever done work for book covers or album covers?

P.J.: Yes. Recently I did work for Laila Alexandra Kanon, “Siren from the Far East” and it soon will be on sale. I’m just a beginner and I hope more proposals will come my way.

S. MAG.: Is there a drawing or painting you did very early on you’re attached to that you just can’t part with?

SuspenseMagazine.com 41 Death Kiss Model: http://lady-moriendistock.deviantart.com Photographer: Blue Angel

Mira Nox It All Began with You Suburbs of Paris Model: http://miranox.deviantart.com/ Model: Jason Aaron Baca http://beinspyred.deviantart.com Photographer: Darya Stern http://jasonaaronbaca.deviantart.com P.J.: Yes. One artwork, “Broken Heart.” I love the colors in this work. Usually, I don’t return to early work and I’m rarely satisfied with what I did. I’m a terrible stickler.

S. MAG.: What is your idea of fun? If given a choice to skip work for a day, how would you spend the entire day?

P.J.: I have very little free time, so I try to spend every free moment with my family and with my boyfriend. I try to enjoy every free minute.

S. MAG.: What do you think are your three best qualities? Worst?

P.J.: I think my best qualities are: I’m ambitious, always strive for perfection, and I’m punctual. My three worst are: sometimes I’m lazy, I quickly get nervous when things don’t go my way, and I’m sometimes hesitant.

S. MAG.: What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted, but still don’t have?

P.J.: I would like to learn how to draw a full digital painting. I’m still learning all the time in this area.

Paulina is truly a talent waiting to be discovered by the world and we are honored to bring her work to life for our readers. To see everything that Paulina is up to, check out her websites: http://facebook.com/amiltarea, http://amiltarea.deviantart. com, and http://amiltarea.weebly.com/. ■

Memento Mori http://tigg-stock.deviantart.com

Ophelia Photographer: http://nastiaosipovastock.deviantart.com

SuspenseMagazine.com 43 Hugh Howey A Tale of Success Interview by Susan May Hugh Howey thought his 2011 self-published science- fiction novella “Wool” would sell five hundred copies—if he were lucky. Instead, he has sold 500,000, scored a seven-figure publishing deal, and had Twentieth-Century Fox snap up the film rights, with the iconic Ridley Scott possibly directing. He thought he was just writing the sort of tale he wished already existed and he would then return to his other novels. But the enthusiastic demand from Amazon reviewers caused him to hurry back to his dystopian subterranean world to continue the story. Less than six months later, he released four more novelettes of varying lengths, collected as the 550-page “Wool Omnibus.” It’s spent considerable time in the Amazon top 100 and was a #1 Bestseller in science fiction, and winner of Kindle Book Review’s “Best Indie Book of 2012” Award. A modest Howey, who is passionate about the options available to authors through self-publishing, wants to make it clear that this success story is about his choice to self-publish from the beginning. “It wasn’t a matter of dealing with rejection and finally resorting to this,” he says. “It was a choice from the get-go. “The first thing an industry insider will think when they hear ‘self-publishing’ is that an author gave up on the query route. I don’t query my books. I haven’t since my first novel was published by a small press and I decided to publish the rest of my books on my own.” Howey claims it took “crazy” and “lots of guts”—as opposed to “clever”—to create the deal that “everyone in the industry was saying would never happen, ever.” His “brilliant” agent Kristin Nelson walked away from six-figure offers, and then seven-figure offers, to eventually strike a deal with Simon & Schuster to distribute “Wool” in print format only, to book retailers across the U.S. and Canada. The deal, though, gave Howey full rights to continue distributing “Wool” as an e-book in these territories himself. Normally, an author signs over all their territory distribution rights, which includes the increasingly lucrative e-book sales. Said Howey, “We stuck to our convictions and we were doing well enough with foreign rights and film sales to not worry about what we were leaving on the table. To us, the goal was to get a different conversation going. And Simon & Schuster deserve all the credit for stepping up to the plate.” The deal has de-stigmatized the self-publishing door for other new and established authors to follow suit in taking control

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 44 of their careers and their intellectual property. “Many authors are now seeing the benefit of earning money now rather than waiting years for a dream that may never materialize,” says Howey. “The route we take no longer signals the quality. It makes for an interesting time to be a writer.” Howey suggest that self-publishing may actually be a smart career move. “Many authors are now skipping the years-long submission cycle and placing their stories directly in the hands of readers (and at incredible prices). Instead of manuscripts sitting around, they are collecting sales and building a fan base. Even a handful of sales are more than none. And time is spent writing the next work rather than shopping around the last one.” Much has been written about the poor quality of self-published books, and while self-publishing is a great opportunity, the sheer volume of releases makes it difficult for readers to find gems that aren’t peppered with errors and novice mistakes. There is an expectation that a major commercial publisher will provide a superior read. Says Howey: “I see typos in the first printing of major releases all the time. If you ask a reader if they’d rather have a book with two typos in it for $12.99 or one with ten typos for $2.99, I think they’ll go with the latter. “All authors need to put out their best work possible, and Indies (independent authors) are no exception. But I do think they deserve a little more of a pass, just as an Indie rock band might release an album with some pops and static. It reminds you that you’re discovering something, not being handed something.” Instead of asking “How’s the writing?” of an Indie book, Howey suggests the question should be: “How’s the story?” He adds: “Readers care less about writing and more about gripping tales with unforgettable characters. The publishing industry is largely run by English majors who think we should care about pristine prose. They don’t understand the success of ‘Twilight,’ Dan Brown, and E.L. James. They wish everyone was reading and discussing literary works. This is why they often miss out on books with wild potential. “If you have to lean one way, it shouldn’t be towards the writing. And I say that, as someone who cherishes fine prose and agonizes over every one of my sentences. But only after I’ve crafted what I hope is an addictive story.” “Wool” is indeed one of those addictive stories. Set in a not-too-distant future, the story takes readers into the world of a Silo, home to thousands of descendants of the survivors of a sixty-year-prior cataclysmic disaster. Nobody remembers what happened, but outside the Silo, the world is in ruin with air too toxic to breathe. Those living inside are bound by strict rules. One is that you must never express the desire to go outside. Doing this, will automatically see you sent outside in a specially made suit to participate in what is known as a “Cleaning.” Unwise unfortunates as well as convicted criminals are sent to clean the one wall-screen that allows the inhabitants a view of the desolate world. Within minutes, their suits break down and they are asphyxiated. The Silo is tiered with two hundred levels and maintains a systemized society of engineering, I.T., administration, food production, and Government, all on different levels. ‘”Wool” begins the story with the sheriff who has lost his wife to a “Cleaning.” But readers then move through the volumes to view the Silo habitat through the eyes of various characters, including Juliette, an engineer who begins to question the values and rules of the system. Then the fun really begins. It is a grim, claustrophobic vision of the future and Howey admits he cannot be sure of the story’s origins, but he shares that silos were always a part of his life. “My father was a farmer and had two large grain silos behind his barn that we played in and on top of,” he says. “I also grew up in the Cold War era and another type of silo was the missile variety. We practiced nuclear drills in grade school. People built bunkers. I took it as an axiom that people would one day live underground while a wasteland raged overhead.”

SuspenseMagazine.com 45 The limited view of the outside world via the wall-screen is a central Wool component of the story. “It came from my wariness of 24-hour news,” says By Hugh Howey Howey, “and what I fear a constant barrage of bad news does for our perception of the world. What if it really isn’t so bad out there? What if we’re bold enough The hype around Howey’s journey from to go see the world for ourselves?” indie author to major book deal is making In his own way, Howey has widened the perception of the self-publishing headlines. world, that outside the landscape of traditional publishing there is a richer “Wool” was first published as a novella world than initially imagined. He believes publishing opportunities are in mid-2011, but demand from Amazon reviewers had Howey hurrying back to broadened with the two working together, such as the publisher-initiated his apocalyptic world to spin out five idea with the “Wool” U.K. edition. The book contains the first chapter of the self-published stories over the next six already e-published follow-up series, “First Shift Legacy,” and concludes the months. In January 2012, he released the free chapter by urging readers to immediately purchase the already available “Wool Omnibus” containing those stories e-book, even though the print copy is yet to be released. and shortly later, the publishing industry “What’s great about this,’’ adds Howey, “is that a major publisher embraced courted him with a seven-figure publishing e-book availability before the print book was available! I’ve always thought deal. Twentieth Century Fox and legendary this should be the case. It helps make for a stronger print debut. For proof, Director Ridley Scott bought the film rights. ‘Wool’ hit #8 on the ‘Sunday Times Bestseller’ list in the U.K. upon release, Were there many changes from the self- published e-book to the publisher’s paper- almost unheard of for a debuting author. book? “Minor revisions and localization “The only reason that was possible was because of the existing fan base and edits,” says Howey. “The biggest rewrite came word-of-mouth generated by the e-book sales. I think publishers are doing the from a small request from my extraordinary opposite of what’s good for their customers, their authors, and themselves, editor, Jack Fogg. He thought a couple of when they hold the e-book back in an attempt to protect hardback sales.” characters should get an earlier mention. The Whilst many authors complain of the deadlines imposed by their next day, I sent him a brand new chapter, publishing contracts, Howey says, “I was the one who dictated the release which we slotted into the original book two. schedule and told Random House (his U.K., Australian publisher) when I It’s now my favorite chapter in the entire book, and I was excited to record a reading would have each book available. I have yet to sign a contract where someone of it for readers who had read the original.” demanded or expected a book from me at a particular time. The pressure to Howey sees the 550 page Omnibus as “a release multiple books swiftly has come from indie authors. We are making a director’s cut.” great living off our work and enjoying the rapport with our readers. We just Set in a post-apocalyptic future, “Wool” want that to continue.” tells the story of inhabitants of a two- With his publishing success, Howey’s only complaint is that his wife misses hundred-level Silo who are bound by strict him while he is whisked away from his South Florida home on long book rules. Breach them and you’re sent outside tours through Europe, the U.K., and currently the U.S. The benefits though, in a specially made suit to participate in a have outweighed the negatives, with the author now able to enjoy more free ‘Cleaning.’ You clean the only wall-screen that allows the inhabitants a view of the desolate time at home after success saw him resign his day job as a bookshop employee. world, before your suit disintegrates and you Even with the extra workload of his newfound celebrity, he still maintains his die. 2,000 word-a-day count. “But it has meant some long days.” “Wool” opens with the Sheriff who lost And if he were ever banished into a deserted silo with time on his hands, his wife to a ‘Cleaning.’ Then we view the the busy author says he would read the complete works of Shakespeare and Silo habitat through the eyes of characters Edgar Allan Poe. And “Ulysses,” not because he thinks the latter is any good including Juliette, an engineer who begins to but he figures, “it’s the only way I’d ever read it. It took being stranded on an question the values and laws of the Silo. island to finally read ‘War and Peace.’ No joke. I loved it.” “Wool” is an extraordinary, rare gem. Howey has a talent for creating character So many authors quote their indebtedness to their agents or publishers depth, pacing, and his world-building is for their success, but Hugh Howey, as one of the poster children of the new all encompassing. Putting “Wool” down social media and self-publishing phenomena, is adamant about who the unfinished, felt like I was leaving good friends major inspiration and support for him is. It’s his readers. In the Amazon book in peril. The “Wool” saga continues with description for “Wool,” he writes, “Thanks go out to those reviewers who “Shift,” already available on e-book and soon clamored for more. Without you, none of this would exist.” to be released in paper-book. Go visit the Silo. It may be, in the not-too-distant future, that many successful self- You won’t want to leave. Reviewed by Susan May http:// published authors will leave a similar inscription in their Amazon sales pitch, anadventureinreading.blogspot.com.au/ for but with one added line, “If not for Hugh Howey and his crazy courage, none Suspense Magazine ■ of these stories would exist.” ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 46 P L L S E By Sean Hunter She was as cute as a button, or so the cliché went. But she was more than just a cliché. Anyone of the children’s catalogs would have gladly accepted her to model for children’s wear: Pottery Barn Kids, Chasing Fireflies, and Gap Kids. As if to have taken her picture, she would be on the front cover in full-color delivered to thousands of doorsteps. With her black hair in pink ribbon pigtails, large doll-like eyes, and her natural unforced smile, she could melt the hearts of the most hardened folks in the rest home where her mother worked– Pillsbury Rest Home to be exact. The rest home has stood for one hundred years, recently celebrating its centennial birthday with sheet cake and Hoodsie cups for all residents and staff alike. It was good to have soft foods during celebrations; anything else would cause dentures to fall and residents to grow even more irritable. And who needed that? They were miserable. God, how miserable they were. Who could blame them? They were long ago forgotten and forced to live in a home with demented peers aimlessly walking the halls, and constant chatter by those slumped in wheelchairs like a hallway decoration—some sort of potted plant maybe. Only these potted plants needed an occasional med or two along with their daily watering. But how they brightened up when little Julie came along. She was kind and sweet to the residents. She was, well, cute as a button. Her mother, Rita, would get numerous compliments throughout the day of what a sweet young daughter she had. Rita was one of the Certified Nursing Assistants; one of the assistants who would be forced to wipe down brown runny britches, and on occasion crawl along the floors looking for misplaced dentures. It was a miserable job, and quite possibly worse than being a resident; although, a resident could not leave. But in some ways, Rita felt as if she could not leave either. She was a single mother. She would crawl through Hellfire and back if it meant her daughter would be taken care of. The dirty, tiresome work could not have been done if not for little Julie running through her mind. It was her motivation, and only motivation for not quitting. But she had come close to it one day: scabby sheets and coagulated blood on the mattress from a very bad skin sore were almost too much for Rita to take. Sometimes I think that CNA certificate is only good for wiping asses. I swear one day I’m gonna wipe my own ass with it she thought to herself. And that was all. The next day she woke up feeling fine. She was like that. Thick skin and a strong backbone were honed to a tough impenetrable shield by the daily struggles of a young single mother living in the big city. While most adored little Julie, the facilities administrator, Mr. Charles Varnum, would become irritated at the sight of the four-year-old. ‘This is not a daycare,’ he would say to Rita. He wouldn’t say it every day, but it was enough to make Rita nervous about bringing her daughter there after school. What choice did she have? They only paid her nine dollars an hour, and that was barely enough money to pay for Julie’s preschool and still have enough money left over to survive the month. Rent was six hundred a month for that shitty little cockroach-infested apartment located on the third floor of that shitty looking three-decker. Life was tough in the big city. Julie was in her first year of preschool and the routine became a monotonous one. Her day would be spent in the classroom of Ms. Miller. Then, little Julie Goodnow would take the short yellow school bus to the rest home, meet her mother, and color for the next two hours until five o’clock. Julie would present her artwork to the residents and

SuspenseMagazine.com 47 the staff where it would serve as a reminder to Mr. Varnum that it was, in fact, a daycare for all ages. The bus ride home was full of love and laughter where they would bond over short stories and quips about the day, but it could also be scary. Wino’s with cardboard signs reeking of month long body odor and Wild Irish Rose, lurking perverts on their way to meet with court appointed shrinks, and demented city dwellers that were in desperate need of psychotic drugs were the sites that made Rita nervous, and curse Julie’s father for having abandoned them years earlier. Very rarely did she complain. On one rare occasion she did. It was on the bus ride home with four-year-old Julie. Rita held Julie close to her bosom, almost smothering Julie in the process. She felt the need to let it all out. She used Julie’s shoulders to hold the weight of the world that had been hanging on her for years. “Lord, I just can’t stand that rest home no more,” Rita said. “They’s just gonna break me and my spirit and I don’t know what we’ll do, baby doll.” “Whatdya mean, Momma?” Julie said looking up at her mother’s eyes beginning to tear. “I just can’t take the people no more. They is like babies. But they is big smelly babies who can’t fend for themselves. The job is just becoming too much for me, hon.” “I don’t like to see you sad, Momma. Maybe you can find a new job? Maybe I can get a job Momma and you can stay home?” Julie could only wonder what that word “job” meant. For Julie, it meant Momma was gone for most of the day and made her too tired to play at the end of it. It meant Julie would spend the day in a room with other kids, some smelly and some mean, then shuffled onto a yellow box with wheels and driven to that other smelly place that made Momma so tired. She didn’t like that three letter word that made her Momma sad. “I’ll be okay. Momma’s just venting. Lord knows I’ll be all right. He don’t give you what you can’t take. But it sure would be a lot easier if there was less people for Momma to take care of, or at least get rid of that mean old man. He makes your momma so upset.” When they got home from the city bus ride, it would be time for a meal of Hamburger Helper, or something else quick from a box. After dinner, Rita would give her daughter a bath in the old claw-foot tub of their one bedroom, third floor apartment on Providence Street. After she brushed her teeth, dried her hair, and looked at a picture book, Julie would be off to sleep. But on this particular night the world changed for little Julie and Momma. “Honey, I’m just too tired to cook tonight. What’s say we heat up something from ol’ Chef Boyardee?” Rita said. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her scuffed white shoes off and tired stocking feet crossed, resting on the vinyl floor. “No, Momma…you promised we would have spaghetti and sauce tonight,” Julie said. Her lips were turned down in a frown. She began to tug at her bedazzled pink shirt with the words SASSY written across. “I know what I said, baby doll, but tonight we’s eatin’ out of a can.” She said in a way that mothers often do; with force and the omnipotent evil eye. Julie began to crawl with anger inside of her four-year-old brain. She began to think how unfair the world was to little girls. Why couldn’t she have spaghetti for dinner? Wasn’t it the same as opening a can from the pantry, then plopping it into the pan? It was that stupid job and that dumb-dittily preschool that was not letting her have it her way. All she did when she went to that room full of kids was build with different colored blocks, only to have the red-haired boy knock it over with laughter. And they sang songs on occasion, but they were silly songs about puppies and buses. Julie liked songs by those people her mother listened to on the weekend: Lady Gaga, Pitbull, and that cute white-boy Justin Beiber. Now that was music for a four-year-old, not that alphabet song where the kids always sang it wrong, “elememohbee…q-r-s-t-u-b-w-ess-whyand- zee.” Her cousin told her that kids don’t even need to know their alphabet until Kindergarten anyway. That began to make her even angrier, and when Julie became angry, those letters from the alphabet song would begin to appear in a jumbled mess inside of her head. “I want spaghetti,” Julie cried. Rita gave Julie the evil eye one last time and said, “We are having Beefaroni tonight and that’s final. If you continue acting like that, you is gonna be in your room with no supper. You understand me? Now go get yourself in time-out until you can get yourself under control.” After some contemplation, Julie went into the corner where she always had her timeout, faced the eggshell colored wall, and folded her arms. By now, Julie’s mind had an image of four letters swimming hazily in her gray matter. She didn’t know how to spell, and could barely recognize letters at the age of four, although she did know things like STOP and WALK from going to the corner store with Momma. Those were four letter words, but the one in her head did not contain any of those letters. There was the letter I, and there was an F. She began to grow frustrated. The sound of the can opener whined though the kitchen, then the crack of the lid and the plopping noise of tonight’s dinner. And then for some strange and unexplained reason the letters made sense to her. She was so proud of herself.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 48 She turned around and shouted, “Momma, I can spell! I can spell fire. F-I-R-E. FIRE!” And that’s when the kitchen stove ignited. The flames came from the rear left burner of the gas oven. They began to shoot up towards the ceiling in bright colors of blue and orange. Black smoke began to fill the kitchen as Rita, standing at the butcher block next to the stove, jumped back shrieking. The flames made a whoosh sound as they burst forth from the burner as if an imp from Hell was being cast upward in geyser like fashion. “Ooh, my Lord,” Rita said as she backed away. She turned around to find Julie standing in the corner with that “cute as a button” smile of hers. “See Momma…fire. I spelled it. I can spe—” Julie said. “Go to the back door now! Hurry!” Rita shouted. I’m dreaming or this is one helluva coincidence, Rita thought. Did my child do that? No, no, no…she was in timeout silly woman and you was at the counter making dinner. Fire extinguisher—get the fire extinguisher, Rita. Stop standing there and protect your baby. Rita snapped out of her momentary lapse of reasoning. She made sure Julie was out of harm’s way, then went into the pantry and grabbed the red fire extinguisher. White powder began to smolder the flames as Rita controlled the spray in fluid left-to-right motions. Here were those strong nerves and backbone in action. No fire’s gonna hurt my baby girl, she thought. Once the fire was gone, Rita went to the back porch and held Julie tight. They cleaned up the white powdery substance, cooked dinner, took baths, and went to bed. Sleep came for Julie, but refused Rita’s request. The next day came with God’s blessing, but it came too early for Rita. She managed on two hours of sleep many times before, and this would be no different. The alarm woke Rita and Rita woke Julie, they ate breakfast, and once again Julie went to preschool on the short yellow box. Rita hoped and prayed the night prior that the kitchen fire was an anomaly. I need to get with that landlord and tell him what happened, she thought. But then doubt got the best of her. The landlord won’t do nothing. Just keep sending him the check, otherwise you just might find yourself homeless. Then what will you do, Rita? You can’t afford another “first, last, and security” on another apartment, so just keep your mouth shut and food on the table. She did just that. While Rita slaved away at the Pillsbury Rest Home the following day (cleaning sheets and passing out fruit cocktail), little Julie was actually beginning to enjoy preschool. The four- and five-year-olds were amazed at the story she told about her apartment almost being burnt to the ground, and how brave her Momma was, and how good the spaghetti tasted afterwards—even though the kitchen smelled like “ca-ca” after the fire. She told them this as she built a tall towering structure with wooden blocks. She liked to build with blocks. It made her happy. The day went by quicker when she was happy. “Wow, Julie. Look at how tall that building is,” Ms. Miller said. “You did a nice job. You are so good at building with blocks. Maybe you will be an engineer someday?” Julie smiled at Ms. Miller. Ms. Miller made her happy, but she didn’t understand the words she used sometimes. She had no idea what an engineer was, nor did she care. She was just happy at her work of art and the recognition she received from the nice teacher. “Thank you,” Julie said. Ms. Miller was off on the other side of the room, most likely encouraging other little ones to find their passion. If a kid wanted to be a garbage man, she would encourage it. Julie was by herself now. She was sitting on the back of her knees, leaning back in admiration of what she had built. But then something caught her attention out of the corner of one eye. That stupid red-haired boy was walking over in her direction with a wide smile on his face. A smile that usually meant destruction and mayhem for skyscrapers made from wooden blocks. He was the Godzilla of Julie’s imaginary city and he had every intention of doing what he did best. Julie tried to stop him, but it was too late. With one swift kick from his green and blue Ked, Julie’s tower was gone. He gave a monstrous roar as he did it, and Julie gave a petite whimper after. “Noooooo,” she cried. The red-haired boy laughed and began to walk away. Little Julie was mad. She fought back the tears. You couldn’t let them see you cry in preschool. Only babies cried in preschool. That’s when the imaginary letters began to form in her head again. There was an F and two L’s, and another letter she recognized as the first letter of the alphabet. She began to have the same physical sensations as she had the night before. Her hands became clammy, yet her body felt warm and,tingled all over. She tried to make sense of the letters dancing in her head. As the red-haired boy, Walter, neared the center of the room (where the treasure chest stood), the letters made perfect sense to Julie. She was proud of herself. So proud. “Walter. Hey, Walter,” Julie said. Walter turned around still smiling. “I can spell Walter. F-A-L-L. Fall, Walter, fall!” As Walter turned back around, ignoring Julie’s new found ability, his feet fell from underneath him. He fell down with an enormous Thud!...just as the blocks had. His head smashed into the corner of the treasure chest where it splayed open an

SuspenseMagazine.com 49 enormous gash in the left side of his head. Blood began to run from Walter’s head as he cried in high-pitched wails. The entire left side of Walter’s face was covered in crimson and it began to drip like candle wax onto his t-shirt with the bulldozer on it. Julie began to smile that cute smile she had when things made her happy. Ms. Miller had no choice but to call nine-one-one. It would be told to the class, later that day, Walter required sixteen stitches to close the wound. “Eeeeewwww,” they had said. No one had seen it happen, except Julie. To the class, Walter just fell. Most likely he tripped on a snag in the rug, they would say. It was her little secret, just as the fire had been. She left out the details to her pint-sized friends about her spelling the word FIRE. Not that she wanted to lie, but she was not sure. Now she was. Surely Walter fell because she spelled it, and surely the fire had been her doing. She wasn’t scared of it. Things like this didn’t scare a four-year-old. It wasn’t as if she found out the boogeyman was real, or that some snarling beast was inside of her closet ready to pounce at any moment. This was like getting a new toy to play with on her birthday for Julie. She might actually be able to help Momma now, but she just wasn’t quite sure how just yet. She would talk to Momma after school. Momma always had the right answer. Momma was the only person who should know. The bus dropped Julie off of the rest home once again. Julie got off, walked up the concrete walkway, through the glass doors, and into the place that had the familiar stench of Lysol and dirty diapers. This was a bad smell for a four-year-old, or any-year-old for that matter. But that smell also meant that Momma would be near. She couldn’t wait to see Momma, and tell her the story about the red-haired boy. “Momma,” she yelled. She hugged her mother tight and Rita hugged her even tighter. It was the one thing they both had to look forward to on their most miserable of days; it kept them both going like a sudden recharge to the batteries. “Hi, baby doll,” Rita said. “How was school today?” “Good. A mean boy got stitches today.” “Oh my, my, my. How’d that happen?” Rita asked. She wasn’t overly concerned, just making small talk with Julie to let her know she cared. She couldn’t talk for long. Mr. Varnum was standing at the end of the hall, peering at Rita and glancing at this watch back and forth as if his head were in perpetual motion between the two. He gave one last downward glance at Rita, tapped his watch, and then summoned her over with a wave of his finger. Before Julie could tell her Momma the story, Rita said, “Come on, baby girl. Go off and look at your books or color. Momma’s got to work.” Then she said in a smiled whisper, “That mean, old coot, Mr. Varnum, needs to talk to Momma. He don’t like us talking. I gotta go see what he needs now.” “Okay, Momma,” Julie whispered back. “I don’t like that mean man. He’s not nice.” Julie had good reason to believe that Mr. Varnum was not nice. She had overheard enough of the stories from the staff of Pillsbury as she sat their coloring on those days after school. People tended to ignore the four-year-old in the room believing they could not possibly comprehend adult conversations, but little Julie was a like a sponge when it came to adults talking, especially the stories about the way Mr. Varnum treated her Momma. He was miserable and hated everyone it seemed. There was a larger than average turnover with the staff at Pillsbury because of his misery. People had been fired for minuscule reasons on many an occasion; clocking in fifteen minutes late during a snowstorm, refusal to work overtime (some girls first dance recital took precedence), and even unfounded accusations of abuse by a demented and combative resident (the promising young nurse was found innocent during the investigation, but Mr. Varnum decided not to bring her back anyway—too much paperwork). Staff was treated as a liability instead of an asset. ‘If you can find another job elsewhere, go ahead and take it,’ he would say. ‘There are ten people lined up to take your spot in this economy.’ Today, Rita finally made it on his naughty list. After he waved Rita over with his finger, he told her to meet him in his office at the end of the day. “Yessir, Mr. Varnum,” Rita said with a smile. “No problem, Mr. Varnum.” Mr. Varnum planned to fire her at the end of the day. She would be the next story told…only she had no idea. The day was done. Five o’clock had not come fast enough, but there was one more thing Rita needed to do before the bus ride home. Maybe he’s giving you a raise, Rita? she thought. Maybe he wants to apologize for the way he treated you? People change. He’s only stressed out because he has all of us to worry about. I wouldn’t want his job. No way. Nuh-uh. These thoughts ran through Rita’s mind as she gathered up Julie’s things, grabbed Julie’s hand, and walked down the fluorescent lit hallway to Mr. Varnum’s office. On the door a name placard of black and white read MR.VARNUM— DIRECTOR OF NURSING. The door was half-way open. She went to knock on it, but as she did, Mr. Varnum waved her in. “Come in. Have a seat, Ms. Goodnow. And could you close the door please?” he said. Rita sat down on the old wooden mahogany chair with Julie in her lap. The silence was broken by the rickety creak of old wood. Julie was quiet when her Momma talked to adults, but very observant as well. “Thank you, sir. I hope you don’t mind me bringing Julie with me. She’s—”

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 50 “Well, that’s why I brought you in here, Ms. Goodnow,” he said with a blank, emotionless expression as if contemplating whether or not he would ease the blow, or just come right out with it. He chose the latter. “I’m afraid I have to let you go.” Rita’s heart sank and her head began spinning. She could not believe what she thought she just heard. “I’m sorry, sir? What was that?” she said with a forced smile. “I have to let you go. In other words; you’re fired,” he said now with a curt smile. He actually looked like he was enjoying it. “I…I…” Rita said, searching for the right thing to say. A lump appeared in her throat as she fought for words. Maybe this is some big joke. Maybe the cameras will come out and the canned laughter will begin like on one of those funny shows, Rita thought. The only other word she could find was, “Why?” “I told you before, Ms. Goodnow. This is not a daycare. You cannot keep bringing your daughter to work. I pay you to work, not to play preschool teacher when your daughter comes here. She comes here every day for two hours and during those two hours your productivity goes way down. I thought it might improve after some of our discussions, but it hasn’t. So, I have to let you go.” He folded his fingers into a tent in front of his mouth to cover his sinister grin. Now he really was enjoying this— watching her squirm. At any moment the eyes will begin to water just like they always do. She’ll beg me for her job and tell me it’s all she’s got. Her and that snot-nosed kid. God, how I hate kids, he thought to himself. He was in control and he loved it. It actually gave him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach and turned his skin to gooseflesh. Julie sat and observed. She saw Momma’s lips begin to tremble as they had at the funeral when Grammy died. And there was that mean man smiling an unnatural smile. It was the same smile as that mean, stupid Godzilla boy from preschool. “Momma?” little Julie asked. Her face was looking directly up at Rita’s. She could see her mother’s eyes begin to glaze over with water, and feel her fingers clench her tiny waist tighter. “Are you okay, Momma?” Rita could only ignore her daughter and focus on one final attempt of empathy from Mr. Varnum. “Mr. Varnum…please…give me another chance. I…I will find someone to take care of Julie. It’s all I got. This place and this job are what’s keeping me and my daughter from the streets. Whatever I did to make you feel this way…it won’t happen again,” said Rita. A tear rolled down her cheek. Little Julie reached up to wipe it away. “I made my decision, Ms. Goodnow and my decisions are final. Now, please leave my office and close the door on your way out. I will notify your supervisor that you have been terminated for poor job performance. You can collect your things tomorrow, but you are not to make a scene, and we will mail you your final pay-stub,” he said. It would be the last words uttered from his pretentious mouth. Rita closed her eyes, bowed her head, and began to sob; not noticing the ever so slight temperature change in her daughter’s body or the clammy feeling of her daughters hands. “Don’t cry, Momma. Please don’t cry. Why are you crying, Momma?” Julie said. She felt her mother begin to get up from the chair and settle Julie off from her lap. Julie was now staring at Mr. Varnum with his arms folded and eyes brought into slits. She was growing angry at the thought of her mother crying and the look of the mean man with arms folded. He was a stupid man. He made Momma cry. And she thought she heard her Momma say something about living in the streets now, while the man did nothing. He did not care about Momma. Julie did not care for him. She now understood why Momma was unhappy. Her body was warmer now and the images of letters began to swim inside of her gray matter once again. She envisioned the letter O and the letter M, but did not understand. Rita began to tug at Julie’s hand and walk out the door. Once they walked out that door, Julie feared they would be homeless and her Momma’s heart would be broken only to never heal. There was another letter now, the letter B. It was coming to her. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s go,” Rita said as she gave another gentle tug. Rita was about to open the door when all of a sudden little Julie sounded off with excitement. “Momma, wait. Wait, Momma. I can spell, Momma. I can spell. B-O-O-M. Boom, Mr. Varnum. Boom!” Julie said. She was now smiling at Mr. Varnum. She was so proud. It was the last thing Mr. Varnum witnessed before the blackness came. His arms flew down to his sides, and his head flew up in surprise as his eyes grew into the size of saucers. There was a slight sound of pain emitted in a nasal-like tone, like someone makes when they step on a piece of glass, and then he was dead. The aneurism burst inside of his brain and he was never more. Boom—that was it. The next week, Julie sat at the table coloring after school. It had been a good day at school. That mean boy stayed away from her, and gave her whatever she wanted. Momma seemed so much happier. Momma gave her a big ol’ hug, then introduced her to someone. “Mrs. Chase, I’d like you to meet my baby girl Julie,” Rita said. “Julie, this is Mrs. Chase. She’s the new Director of Nursing here at Pillsbury. Say ‘Hi’ to Mrs. Chase, baby girl.” Julie looked up at Mrs. Chase and smiled. Mrs. Chase smiled back. Julie felt H-A-P-P-Y. ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 51

The Many Faces J o shua Graham

f By Suspense Magazine Photo Credit: Provided by Author Joshua Graham seems to be a complex individual. His accomplishments are numerous, and his talents seem to be endless. He earned his doctorate from Johns Hopkins University and has a master’s degree from Juilliard. He has performed as a soloist and principal cellist both domestically and internationally. Today however, he lives with his wife and children in San Diego, California. Because he apparently wasn’t busy enough earning degrees and serenading people across the country with his music, Graham served as a faculty member at Columbia Union College, Western Maryland College, Shepherd College, and Brooklyn College. But his gifts to society don’t end there, Joshua also co-hosts a radio show with Susan Wingate called “Dialogue: Between the Lines.” He interviews debut authors as well as well-known ones. When he’s not entertaining listeners on BlogTalkRadio, he is busy penning some pretty fantastic novels, which is proven by his winning of the International Book Awards for “Beyond Justice.” In addition, his award-winning novel “Darkroom” hit three bestseller lists on Amazon the night of its release. His newest book, “Terminus,” is being released this month. Here’s what it’s about:

Having witnessed one too many senseless deaths, Nikolai, a disillusioned Reaper 3rd Class, resigns his commission with the Angel Forces after a tedious century of gathering souls. Immediately, another division recruits him with the promise of a more rewarding career, and issues his initial assignments: to bring down a few very dangerous threats to the human race. In the process, Nikolai falls in love with one of his targets—Hope Matheson, a woman who will lead thousands astray. Caught between conflicting agendas, Nikolai chooses to “fall” from his celestial state and become mortal in order to circumvent angel law and be with her. But for angels and humans alike, things are not always as they appear. Still a target, the threat against Hope’s life intensifies. Now, in order to save her, Nikolai must rally the last remnants of his failing supernatural abilities to prevent her assassination, as well as the destruction of an entire city by a nuclear terrorist strike. But his time and power are running out…

We managed to snag a few minutes of Joshua’s time. Here’s what he has to say:

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): How long did it take to write “Terminus”? What, if any, research did you have to do for this book?

Joshua Graham (J.G.): From conception to birth, “Terminus” was completed over the course of four years. Not that it took that

SuspenseMagazine.com 53 “I hope they fall in love with my characters, expand their imagination, and consider the themes of hope, eternity, healing, forgiveness, and redemption in “Terminus. ” long to actually write it—it was just a project that got put on hold for research, life situations (like losing my job, family members, and other projects). I did a moderate amount of research, most of which was really fascinating to me.

S. MAG.: You also have a radio show on BlogTalkRadio with Susan Wingate. Can you tell us how you got involved in this and how it works? Where can someone go to hear your show?

J.G.: Susan and I actually got the inspiration after John Raab interviewed me (and later Susan) for Suspense Magazine’s radio show. We thought it would be great to interview other authors and to date, we’ve been graced by some big names such as Preston & Child, David Morrell, Jerry Jenkins, David Farland, J.A. Jance, Sandra Brown, Steve Berry, and James Rollins, to name but a few. Our program is called “Dialogue: Between the Lines,” and we air on Thursdays (occasionally—we’ve gotten too busy writ- ing to do it every week) from 10 a.m. to 10:30 a.m., PST. You can find our archived interviews here: www.blogtalkradio.com/ dialogue.

S. MAG.: You write under the name of Joshua Graham and other pseudonyms. Can you tell us what those other names and why you write under different names?

J.G.: I also write YA/Epic Fantasy under the pen name Ian Alexander (www.ianalex.com). I do this to try to avoid reader confu- sion. It’s an open pen name, and I’m glad to know that my readers from both genres have crossed over between the two.

S. MAG.: What encouragement can you give a writer trying to breakthrough?

J.G.: The singular most important quality any professional writer must have is not talent, it’s determination. Let’s face it, there’s a LOT of rejection in this business. I was blessed that someone taught me about this before my very first short-story submission. Don’t take rejections personally, and don’t let yourself get discouraged. Keep writing, submitting, publishing (if you go indie), and repeat until something sticks. For more on this, google “Heinlein’s Rules.” I read somewhere that Dean Koontz got about seventy- five rejections before his first novel got published. For me, it was almost fifty before “Darkroom” was sold to Simon & Schuster/ Howard Books. Never give up, don’t listen to naysayers, and you know, it doesn’t hurt to pray!

S. MAG.: How do you expect your fans to react as they’re reading through the pages of “Terminus”?

J.G.: Of course, I expect them to run wild through the streets tearing their shirts, beating their chests, holding everyone they know hostage until they go and get a copy of my book, and then repeat the process. But it probably won’t happen quite like that. How do I hope they’ll react? I hope they fall in love with my characters, expand their imagination, and consider the themes of hope, eternity, healing, forgiveness, and redemption in “Terminus.” And I would love to hear from my readers, too. Everyone is welcome to contact me through my website, www.joshua-graham.com/contact.

S. MAG.: Do you have any superstitions when you write?

J.G.: I’m not superstitious, but I do pray before, during, and after writing, that the words I write will not only entertain my read- ers, but give them something to ponder, give them hope in times of despair, and even offer a new perspective on life they might not otherwise have considered. Based on the feedback I’ve been receiving, some of my readers have experienced this. This to me is the fulfillment of my calling as a writer.

S. MAG.: Do you have a book you wrote that has never been published, just sitting on your shelf?

J.G.: They’re actually sitting in a folder on my hard drive. And there must be about thirty or so book proposals just waiting to be written. Unfortunately for them, they are constantly competing with the new “book ideas” that keep flooding my mind, demand- ing to be the next one I write. It’s a battlefield, I tell you. God only knows how I am to figure out which book to write next. There’s more than a lifetime of yet-to-be-written/published books waiting.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 54 Terminus As for completed books that have never been published? Yes, there are a couple which By Joshua Graham were written when I first began. They will never see the light of day unless I go back and edit them with the experience I now have. Or unless I hire a top notch editor/ Joshua Graham opens our hearts writer who can impersonate me so well I can be convinced that I wrote it. Stephen to a different type of love and our King had Richard Bachman, who knows who Joshua Graham will have…or if he minds to the world of the supernatural already does? :) in “Terminus.” The book will leave you asking questions about angels and S. MAG.: What did you like to read as a child? whether they really do intervene in the lives of people. J.G.: As a child, I read science fiction and nonfiction, besides some of my favorites Nikolai, ‘Nick,’ once a proud such as E.B. White. But I also read the Bible a lot, which explains the spiritual influ- guardian angel was demoted centuries ence in my life and writing today. Ironically, my favorite writer is C.S. Lewis, and I ago for an angelic transgression. Now, only discovered his work when I became a young father and read The Chronicles of he is a reaper of the third legion (a Narnia to my children. lower class angel) who is fed up with his job. He is tired of picking up ‘the dead’ S. MAG.: Do you have something you’ve been known to often utter or perhaps you and taking them to the terminus. The have a personal mantra? terminus is a way station or terminal where the souls of the dead catch a ride J.G.: “Don’t follow your heart,” and “You are not your emotions.” This is perhaps coun- up or down. Nick doesn’t know which; tercultural, but I think it is what we need in order to regain civility, sanity, and decen- his job is just to transport. cy in our world today. Emotions are powerful. They can be great for expressing love, He is approached by a supervisor inspiring courage, protection, and many other noble acts and thoughts. But they can with a new position, a lateral move also be negative and addicting. What we don’t realize in our society is that we do not that will help fast track him back to his have to be controlled by our emotions. Nor do we have to be defined by them. We are former glory. He is assigned to bring not slaves to them, unless we abdicate our free will and mind to them. “Follow your down or to help terminate dangerous heart, Do what feels right?” Ask yourself how well that’s worked for you. Sometimes people whose continued living will bring it works out great. But if you look at the worst tragedies of our history, both personal about the tragic loss of thousands of and global, they can all be tied to emotional reactions and lack of self-restraint. human souls. On his first assignment, he is to help facilitate the deaths of three I could go on, but I really believe that we can control ourselves and do what’s right, people whose living will cause the death rather than what we are feeling. It’s what elevates and separates us from animals. But of thousands. Upon witnessing the you know what? Even animals can be trained to control themselves. We certainly can people he is to help, he starts to doubt his train ourselves to do what is right. The question is, do we want to? assignment. This doubt increases when he meets Hope, a distraught woman bent S. MAG.: What is the oddest, wildest, or most unusual request ever made of you on self-destruction—suicide. Questions flood his mind: Does he know her from by a fan? a time past? How could this broken woman be a dark force? J.G.: There was this one fan from Nigeria who wanted me to give him my bank’s rout- Nick stops her suicide attempt and ing number and checking account number so he could wire me a million dollars…but gradually starts to have feelings for her. I told him I’d rather him donate it to charity. Seriously, though, I have the best fans An act that is strictly forbidden for all in the world. They are supportive, fun, and are responsible for sending my books to angels of any class. This one choice the top of several bestseller lists. I couldn’t ask for better fans, and I pray I’ll be able to changes everything. Like a snowball reward them with a lifetime of books they’ll enjoy and remember. rolling down a hill, it gathers everything in its path and modifies the lives of his S. MAG.: How can readers/fans get in touch with you? other assignments. What unfolds in “Terminus” will have you gasping for air, J.G.: So glad you asked! :) I would love it if everyone would sign up for my rare-to- yelling at the characters, and questioning occasional newsletter here: www.Joshua-Graham.com/newsletter. I’ll be giving heads everything you thought you knew about up on new releases, exclusive content, giveaways and contests, and other cool ideas. I angels. don’t do too many newsletters because I’m way too busy writing books, but I will try In “Terminus,” Joshua Graham to make it fun and engaging. has written a fast paced, adrenaline pumping, spiritual epic! We thank Joshua for taking the time to divulge a few secrets with us and his Reviewed by J.M. LeDuc, author of readers. If you want to know more about him (or his alter ego), visit him at http:// “Cursed Days” published by Suspense joshua-graham.com/ or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/J0shGraham Publishing, an imprint of Suspense or twitter: www.twitter.com/j0shuagraham. ■ Magazine ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 55 Mark

By I. R. Griffith oth men stood close to the thoughts had been invaded by the one looking weapon, the kind you’d see in dumpster, deep within theEasy he eventually called Murk. He wasn’t the hands of a commando or crazed shadows cast by a pale light sure if the voice was the dark side of killer. He smiled as he thought of the atopB the ridge of a video store located at his nature or a real being, but in the blood that had coated the blade on one end of a run-down strip-mall. end it didn’t matter. Once the mark three occasions, soon to be four. “She’ll be out soon,” whispered was selected, Murk’s demands grew Again, again. the thinner one. His mother, whoever increasingly insistent and couldn’t be “Her name’s Carla. I heard the she was, named him John, but to the denied for long. clerk call her that when he tried to neighborhood thugs, he was Trill, a “Okay, just wanted to make sure.” make a move on her.” Trill laughed and name he’d adopted years ago. It served Trill turned his head quickly and continued, “Damn sissy, though. No both as a testament to how he kept it looked at Fatboy. way she’d go for a loser whose crowning real on the streets and as a gauntlet to He leaned in close, tilted his head achievement in life amounts to ringing anyone who thought him less than the slightly to the side and whispered from up DVDs and bagging candy.” name implied. deep within his throat, “You’re not She wants a real man like you. “How do you know?” asked Fatboy. gonna punk out on me, are ya?” Trill could feel his face growing It was unclear how Fatboy had come by “No, no. Whatever you want, I’m warm from the onslaught of feral his name. He was big, but not really fat, with you. There’s no one like you, Trill.” memories and the increasing weight of closer to heavy, like a football player He’s weak. Don’t trust...don’t trust. the whispered goading. Even though who’d cut back on training and let Trill tensed from the accusation. He Murk’s confirmation was satisfying, it things go a little. trusted Fatboy, yet Murk had spoken was at the same time tormenting. “She always comes here on Friday out against including him from the The other women had been alone; he night and never stays more than thirty very beginning. Of all the guys on the made sure of that, three women in three minutes.” street corner where he spent a lot of his states: Georgia, Kansas, and California. He guessed she lived alone since time, only Fatboy gave him the proper The cops hadn’t connected the crimes she was never with anyone. A young respect. The others have no idea how and they never would. Although the woman living alone was an easy mark I’ve earned my creds, he thought, if they statue of justice held a scale, she was since they usually weren’t aware of what knew they’d piss themselves. He’d finally blindfolded. All he had to do was limit was going on around them. made the decision to include Fatboy, his indulgences to one mark in a state “Are you sure she’s the one you mostly because he wanted someone to and then move on to the next. Hell, he want?” see how he controlled the mark and could have fifty marks and never repeat “Oh, she’s the one. Last week I was how she would cry and beg for her life, a state. Probably not fifty, though, inside the store when she was there and promising him anything if he’d only let there’s no way he was going to Alaska, I caught her looking in my direction, her live. Trill felt a touch of regret that too damn dark and cold up there. checking me out.” he’d have to waste Fatboy once the fun He made a point of learning the first Just like the rest of them...soon was over, but it couldn’t be helped, loose names of each woman: Susan, Melody, enough she’ll know you better. ends had to be eliminated. and finally, Jennifer. He even purchased Trill’s hands shot up and grabbed Yes, eliminate him...kill him. a set of charms and engraved them with his temples. It took him several seconds Trill slid his hand into his pocket their names. He wore them on a heavy to regain control, but even then he and touched the cool steel of the tactical gold chain around his neck. Soon there was shaken. Nearly four years ago his knife he always carried. It was a wicked would be a fourth, Carla. Whenever

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 56 he heard the soft jingle of the charms where, but detected enough of a drawl He could feel the anger rising as they bounced off one another, he’d to know that Fatboy wasn’t from up and had to make an effort not to give think of the nights when he ended the north. He had an ear for accents and in. What he planned for later was the dreams of each of them. Fatboy clearly wasn’t from here in New only remedy he’d ever found to salve I hear their voices, they’re calling for Jersey. The only thing he knew for sure the wounds of a pitiful childhood and others. was that Fatboy had been in the Army pointless teenage years. He’d almost made a big mistake and had been deployed to Iraq a couple He watched as she walked to her after the first one. When he came of times a few years back. car, an older model with a faded paint across the funeral notice, he decided Trill looked over at Fatboy who was job. It had several rust spots forming to go to the cemetery and mingle with staring at the ground, “You’re not above along the base of the doors and at the the mourners. He was drawn by the getting your hands dirty, are you?” bottom of the rear wheel wells. She slid thrill of being so close to the people Trill already knew the answer he’d behind the steering wheel and cranked who suffered violent loss and knowing receive. the old clunker a few times. When he was responsible. Their tormentor Do it yourself. Don’t need him. it finally coughed to life, he started walked among them and they didn’t “I’m your boy, Trill, you know moving toward the vehicle, barely know it. Trill believed that he wasn’t that. Whatever you want, just ask.” noticing the cloud of gray smoke that alone in his desire to be anonymously “Well, it’s finally time for me to belched from the exhaust. close to the families of his victims. He introduce myself to Carla. She’ll be out As he came up to the car, he could knew there had to be others like him, here any minute. You get over to the see her reach for the shift lever with who shared his view of life and death... warehouse and wait for us there.” her right hand. As she turned to look especially death. “You sure you don’t need me here?” over her shoulder in preparation for the He kept his distance, staying to “Nah, I can handle the grab. You slow backup she seemed to prefer over the periphery of the crowd. When just get the place opened up.” the quick dash that most drivers her age they lowered the casket into the grave, Trill watched as Fatboy jogged over used, Trill reached out and knocked on he relived the last bloody moments of to his SUV and drove away. her window, a solid thunk, thunk. She Susan’s life and had been lost in it for Stay away from the warehouse. Use looks appropriately startled, he thought, barely a minute. When he snapped out the other place. probably wondering if she’s rubbed of his revelry, he looked around at the Trill rubbed his temples in a vain against some sort of obstruction. mourners. Everyone seemed occupied effort to relieve the tension that was A second later she turned her talking and crying, everyone except steadily building. It was always this way head toward the sound and saw Trill Susan’s younger sister. She was looking when Murk started his pleadings. standing there. directly at him, fixated almost. He only It was another ten minutes before Like what you see, don’t you, Bitch? saw her chin and lips below the edge Carla came out through the back Women were all the same, at least of a charcoal veil that ran from her door. She was medium height and when it came to how they saw him. He’d shoulders, over her head and down to walked confidently. Usually this would worked hard to look good, spending just below her nose. Maybe she hadn’t have disqualified her as an easy mark, hours pumping iron in the gym. Arnold really been looking at him, but he had but he’d made an exception in her has nothing on me, except maybe a Mr. been so unnerved by the possibility, that case. There was something exciting Universe title, but he’d gotten that by he’d turned away and walked quickly to about her that caused him to bend the connections and steroids, not by raw his car. The next day he packed, left rules a bit. He tried to pull whatever it talent like me, thought Trill. Georgia and headed for Kansas. He was from the recesses of his mind, but it She stared at him and slowly began never went to another funeral. stayed just out of reach, sort of tickling to roll down the window. He quickly As they waited for Carla to leave him. looked around to make sure that no the store, they moved around behind She wasn’t beautiful, though she one had come into the area. His dark the dumpster, closer to her car. certainly wasn’t ugly. Trill had never brown hair was long and tied back “Now, why would she park back been with an ugly woman and wasn’t with a leather thong. As he turned his here? Didn’t her Daddy ever tell her about about to start now. Even as a teenager, head the ponytail slapped his cheek. avoiding dark, isolated places?” Trill he learned that no one respected a man He liked the feel of hair hitting his smiled knowingly. “Someone should who went with an ugly woman. He face. Sometimes he’d stand in front of talk to that man.” remembered how they laughed at him the mirror and turn his head quickly She came here for you. She wants when he’d gone to the Prom with Erin from side to side, just to experience the you. Callaway. The laughter buzzed through sensation. Fatboy was new to the his mind, stinging him and causing a She cranked the window down a neighborhood, having moved in a discomfort that he’d always done his few inches and asked “What do you couple of months ago from somewhere best to avoid. want?” down south. Trill wasn’t exactly sure Do it. Do it now! They all should die. As she finished her question he

SuspenseMagazine.com 57 saw her glance down at the door lock. Trill glancing in her direction than be discovered on the main drag. The shaft of the button stood at least periodically. She was moving her lips, “That was real smart, Carla, you an inch above the door frame. Without mouthing something over and over keeping quiet in front of that cop.” pausing, Trill reached out and took again, a prayer perhaps or maybe an She turned her head toward Trill hold of the door handle. He pulled up incantation designed to incapacitate and said, “You’re going to let me go, on it and heard the distinctive click as her abductor. Either way made no right?” the lock mechanism released its grip difference to him, it wouldn’t change “Sure, but we have to make a stop on the door frame. A second later he anything. first.” pressed himself through the opening. Stop her talking...she’s laughing at When they arrived at the warehouse “What...?” she blurted. you. only one car was in sight, Fatboy’s “Get over or you’re dead.” Trill felt the sting of the accusation, SUV. It was parked half a block away, He pushed Carla roughly, leaning but knew he couldn’t do anything here. far enough that no one would associate on her and placing his face close As they drove along, he frequently it with the abandoned building. Good enough to hers that he could detect the looked in the rear-view mirror to make thinking, maybe Fatboy has more brains faint scent of lavender. sure they weren’t being followed. He than I give him credit for, thought Trill. “No...no...” she stammered, more kept to the speed limit to avoid arousing He’s nothing, kill, kill! out of disbelief than in an attempt to the suspicions of any cops on their Although the warehouse hadn’t defy him. nightly rounds. This was the trickiest been used in twenty years or more, Don’t wait. Use the knife...slice her part, transporting her. She didn’t realize there was a chain-link fence around its open. just how much power she had. Simply perimeter and a bank of lights along the She started to struggle, but stopped screaming when they stopped at a light edge of the roof line that cast a weak suddenly when he pushed the silvery or pushing the door open and throwing sheet of light along the area immediately blade toward her face. She thinks she’s herself out of the car, could lead to her surrounding the building. The driveway going to die, he thought, satisfied with escape or rescue. Fear immobilized her; had a heavy-duty gate with a chain and the confirmation of his intent. She fear of the unknown, fear of death, but padlock securing it. Trill wondered seemed to lose all her energy in an mostly fear of Trill. And he liked it that why anyone would bother to lock the instant, sliding over to the passenger way. gate since there were several sections of seat and pressing herself against the Make her fear you...show your fencing missing on either side of it. door. power. Angling slightly to the right, “Don’t make me hurt you,” he said Up ahead, traffic had come to a halt. he eased the front wheel of the car as he held the knife up for her to see. A policeman was directing vehicles up against the curb and pressed the He offered her some hope of around broken glass from two cars that accelerator down until the car pulled deliverance so that she wouldn’t collided. Damn, he thought, this could up onto the sidewalk. He drove through resist. He had to save the deed ‘til later be trouble. He glanced over at Carla. the gap in the fencing and headed to the when he could really enjoy it, not here “Don’t try anything. It would only rear of the building. When he completed in an old clunker behind the video take a second for me to cut your throat.” the turn he saw Fatboy standing by the store. He laid the knife next to him on the rear truck door, holding a set of bolt Not later...now! Kill her, kill her! seat, but kept it close to his leg. Carla cutters. Trill clinched his jaw and fought stared at the knife and then looked up Trill pulled up close and stopped back the demands. It was too risky here at the policeman as he signaled them to with the car’s headlights washing across in the parking lot. keep moving past the wrecked cars. the door. Fatboy swung the bolt cutter Carla slowly pointed toward her Be careful, keep cool. into position and grabbed the padlock purse on the floor, “Take my money, Trill’s nerves were aflame as he felt between its jaws. Snap, the lock fell but don’t hurt me.” the pulse in his carotid artery, boom, to the ground. When the door was Trill could hear the tension in her boom, boom. open, Trill drove into the cavernous voice as her throat muscles tightened. He kept his eyes on the road to make interior of the warehouse. After he shut “Don’t want your money. Just stay sure he didn’t rear-end the car ahead of off the engine, the only sounds were there and you’ll be okay.” him. That’s all he needed, an accident Trill’s breathing and Carla’s whispered He kept his eyes on her as he placed right in front of a cop. He glanced over prayers. the car into gear and backed out. He at Carla who was smiling and looking He got out of the car and walked didn’t bother to look where he was directly at the patrolman. Better get out around to the rear. Fatboy already closed going, just kept his eyes fixed on Carla. of here quickly, Trill thought, she’s about the door and was moving toward the Another shift and turn of the wheel and to snap; she shouldn’t be smiling. car. A pale, sort of twilight glow filled the car was headed onto the street. He cut over to a side street which the warehouse from a combination of During the entire trip she sat added a few minutes to the trip, but the car’s headlights and the reflection of huddled against the door with he thought it better to take a diversion the outside building lights.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 58 “You done good,” said Trill as silver. Fatboy nodded his head, pointing “You don’t remember me, do he watched Fatboy stride across the with it to Carla. Trill turned toward her. you?” she asked. Fatboy stood by her concrete floor. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt side, hitting the bloody brass knuckles Funny, thought Trill, he’s not me,” she said. together rhythmically. His eyes were shuffling along like he does all the time. “Yeah, I suppose I did, but that’s dark orbs, not reflecting any light and Guess this sort of activity brings out the what I always say. Truth is, I’m a lying his lips were drawn tight, giving him best in him. bastard who’s only got one thing on his the look of a hard operator who had You don’t need him...save everything mind tonight.” He smiled and brought rough business ahead. for yourself. the knife up close to his face. When Trill slowly shook his head and “Where is she?” he looked over at Carla, the smile was groaned from the pain. Fatboy’s face was in the shadow gone. Through clinched teeth he said, “Maybe this will help you.” cast by a huge support beam midway “And that’s to slice you in pieces, top to From her side she raised her hand, between the wall and the car, so Trill bottom and left to right.” unfolded what she held and draped couldn’t see his features, but he heard At this point two of his previous it over her head. A veil fell across her him clearly. victims had collapsed. Only the first face, exposing only her lips and chin. Damn, he wants to get right to one, Susan, tried to run away. The Trill knew in an instant that his fears it. Have to teach him something about movement surprised him, almost had been realized. Like a special effect patience and how to enjoy the moment. allowing her to escape. There’d be no in a movie, he saw a funeral pyre and a “She’s in the car.” Trill walked to the escape for Carla, just as there hadn’t veiled sister staring down at him. passenger door and pulled it open. “Get been for Susan. From beneath the veil Carla said, out,” he commanded. No escape for her or any of them. “When the Army finally let my brother Slowly, Carla moved her legs to the “It’s so easy, Carla. Uhh...its okay come home, we started searching for side and extended them outside the for me to call you Carla, isn’t it?” you. It’s been three years. The police door. She stood up and reached back He stared at her through narrow gave up, but not us. You took our into the car for her purse. What the slits of eyes and filled the warehouse sister and robbed everyone who loved hell, Trill thought, she wants to take her with a blend of demon’s scream and her of the kindest, most gentle person purse? lunatic’s cackle. Once again he whipped we’d ever known. They told us to put it “You won’t need that.” the knife around as he closed his eyes, behind and move on, but we couldn’t “What are you going to do to me?” threw his head back and howled like a do that. There’s no justice if you just Carla dropped to her knees. wolf beneath a full moon. walk away.” “I’m going to show you fear like Ecstasy...soon, soon. Trill looked over at Fatboy, or you’ve never known. Right now you’re When he looked back at Carla she whatever his name was, and swallowed thinking that you want to live and in was standing erect with her purse on hard. He felt the voice of the underworld the beginning you’ll beg me for that, the floor and her right hand close to ebbing. Get them, they’re nothing...get... but before I’m done you’ll welcome her side. She’s holding something, Trill until it was silent. death.” thought. He turned toward Fatboy to Carla reached down and picked up Trill paused, looking for a reaction. get an explanation from his partner, Trill’s knife. She held it securely, moving She seemed calm, but he knew that but instead of seeing the big man, a it back and forth slowly. wouldn’t last much longer. flash of metal knuckles filled his vision “Here’s how it’s going down, Trill. She’s laughing at you...make her the instant before they pounded into I’ve only got one thing on my mind show respect. his face just above his left eye. Another tonight.” She ran her finger along the Trill turned toward Fatboy, “Come one came from down low, driving up side of the knife from hilt to tip, almost on over here. I want you to see under his chin, nearly lifting him from caressing it. Suddenly she shoved the everything.” the floor. Trill fell to his knees, bleeding blade toward Trill’s face stopping barely “Look what I brought.” heavily from two severe gashes. The an inch away. “And that’s to slice you in Fatboy held up two large brass third blow came from above, hitting pieces, top to bottom and left to right.” knuckles. He slipped one onto each him on the side of his head, driving him She lowered the tip of the blade hand and clanged them together a forward, hard against the concrete. He and pressed it against Trill’s cheek, couple of times. The metallic sound had the fleeting sensation of handcuffs just below his right eye. A flick of her echoed through the expanse of the being snapped on his wrists before he wrist drew a line of crimson as the warehouse. blacked out. No, no... blood started to flow. The sounds of “What’s with the knuckles? That’s When consciousness returned, Trill’s screaming and pleading filled not the way we do it.” Trill was lying on the floor looking up the abandoned warehouse even before Trill held up the knife and swiped it at Carla and Fatboy. His jaw was broken the slicing began, and didn’t end until back and forth in a figure eight. Even in and already swelling. Blood from his justice was served. Trill was weighed on the pale light the blade was a streak of wounds coated the floor near his head. the scales and found wanting. ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 59 Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 60 Between the Lines Jeremy Robinson

By Suspense Magazine Photo Credit: Provided by Author

Jeremy Robinson is one of the hardest-working writers out there today. Along with writing his own books, Jeremy teams up with wonderful co-authors and they put their heads together and come up with fascinating stories. From horror to thriller writing, Jeremy has many different series going on at the same time. Jeremy Bishop horror novels, Jack Sigler thrillers, “The Antarktos Saga” and the “Origins Editions,” are included with his extensive list of standalone books. And he got an extra boost of fame from a picture of Snooki—yep, from the Jersey Shore TV show—sitting on a kids toy at a park reading Jeremy’s “Project Nemesis.” Jeremy is accessible to his fans, as a regular on Facebook, and he loves it when fans e-mail him. He keeps fans engaged with his writing. He began his creative career as an illustrator for comic books and comic strips, along with working on several small indie projects. With nearly twenty novels out, Jeremy is also known as a No. 1 Amazon.com horror writer. Jeremy got his start self-publishing “The Didymus Contingency,” and showed that with great writing and a lot of hard work, self-published authors can break out and become highly successful. I could go on and on about Jeremy, but you didn’t come here to hear that, so let’s look inside “Island 731,” his latest thriller, and then check out Jeremy’s exclusive interview below:

Mark Hawkins, former park ranger and expert tracker, is out of his element, working on board the Magellan, a research vessel studying the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Surrounded by thirty miles of refuse, a series of strange malfunctions plague the ship’s high tech systems while a raging storm batters the craft and its crew.

When the storm fades and the sun rises, the beaten crew awakens to find themselves anchored in the protective cove of a tropical island...and no one knows how they got there. Even worse, the ship has been sabotaged, two crewmen are dead, and a third is missing. Hawkins spots signs of the missing man on shore and leads a small team to bring him back. But they quickly discover evidence of a brutal history left behind by the Island’s former occupants: Unit 731, Japan’s ruthless World War II human experimentation program. Mass graves

SuspenseMagazine.com 61 and military fortifications dot the island, along with a decades-old laboratory housing the remains of hideous experiments.

As crew members start to disappear, Hawkins realizes that they are not alone. In fact, they were brought to this strange and horrible island. The crew is taken one by one, and while Hawkins fights to save his friends, he learns the horrible truth: Island 731 was never decommissioned and the person taking his crewmates may not be a person at all—not anymore.

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Give us a behind-the-scenes look at your latest book “Island 731.”

Jeremy Robinson (J.R.): “Island 731” is a fast-paced and dark thriller exploring the present day ramifications of the human experimentation performed by Imperial Japan’s Unit 731 during World War II. It’s a nice mix of history, science, action, and horror.

When I first started working on “Island 731,” my intent wasn’t to write a darker novel, but as I researched the actual history and learned about the experiments carried out—limb replacements, vivisections on men, women, children, and pregnant women, rapid freezing and thawing, not to mention state sanctioned cannibalism—the story naturally went in that direction. Happily, my story doesn’t focus on those horrible crimes, but it was spawned from them as I brought that history forward into the present and considered what it might look like if Unit 731’s research had never stopped.

S. MAG.: How do you choose your co-authors? What intrigues you enough about them to want to write a book with them?

J.R.: I read a lot of books by indie authors and am always keeping an eye out for a few key attributes that might intrigue me enough to reach out. The first is style. If their writing is compatible with mine—fast and punchy—that’s great. Second is subject matter. Anyone pushing the limits of pacing or writing about monsters, robots, zombies, mythology, etc, will quickly get my interest. I think similar taste in stories is immensely important. Third, and this is really just a bonus, if they’re already a fan of my books, it helps a lot, especially if they’re being considered for a series, like the Jack Sigler Thrillers. This is one of the reasons I teamed up with Kane Gilmour for “Ragnarok” and now “Omega”—he knows the books just about as well as I do because he was a fan before he was a co-author. Last, and I think this is obvious, they have to write well!

S. MAG.: How many books do you see coming out of the Jack Sigler series?

J.R.: This is a tricky question, because I’m not 100% sure. But I’ll reveal what’s currently in the works. Coming out in the spring, co-authored with Sean Ellis, is “Prime,” a Chess Team origins story that reveals the explosive manner in which the team came together. After that, in the fall, is “Omega,” the fifth novel in the series (I suppose it’s the sixth if you count “Prime”), which wraps up several major plotlines that began in the very first Jack Sigler book, “Pulse.”

Now comes the tricky part. After “Omega,” there will likely be another “I suppose I live vicariously through the characters in my head.”

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 62 series of novellas, but I cannot reveal the plot or subject matter for those books without ruining “Omega.” As for future full-length novels, it’s possible that “Omega” could be the last, but I suspect fans might hunt me down and go all “Misery” on me if I ended things, so I can’t say for sure.

S. MAG.: Starting with “Screenplay Workbook: The Writing Before the Writing” (2003) and “POD People” (2006), how has your writing changed—with the exception of genre—from those two books to “Island 731” (3/2013)?

J.R.: The “Screenplay Workbook” and “POD People” were both nonfiction titles, so it’s hard to compare them to “Island 731” except in terms of basic writing skills, which is easy to do: I’m better now. A fairer comparison might be “Raising the Past,” (2006) my first mainstream thriller. While fans love “Raising the Past,” as the author, I can look back and seeing glaring differences between now and then.

Pacing. While “Raising the Past” isn’t exactly slow, I’ve managed to pick up the pace since then and have altered my chapter format to keep things moving quick and keep readers starting new chapters when they should be sleeping.

Characters. In my older books, my characters were...corny. Too much banter. Too much melodrama. Now, my characters are much more refined and interesting personalities with strong motivations and realistic reactions to the unthinkable. Along these lines, my dialogue has improved a TON, and I have to credit my editor at Thomas Dunne Books for this as he relentlessly highlighted my early dialogue and wrote “HIGH SCHOOL!!!” in the margins.

But perhaps the biggest change has been my expanding commitment to research and basing my fantastic elements on reality. With “Island 731,” the creature is based on actual research being performed by Unit 731 during World War II, and perhaps even more disturbing, research that is being carried out now, around the world. For “Raising the Past,” I kind of just made it all up. That said, I have to cut my younger self some slack as I was dirt-poor and had very limited resources. And again, sometimes a little soft sci-fi goes a long way.

S. MAG.: The beginning of the book or the end: which do you think has the most impact on the reader, but which is harder for the author to write?

J.R.: I hope the end has more impact. While I try to write powerful prologues that hook readers, the end of a book is the focal point for everything that has come before it and my hope is that the experience is powerful and generates real emotions, whether that is elation, fear, anger, sadness joy, or amazement. But is the end harder to write? Nope. I tend to fly through my endings because I’ve been day dreaming them for months before getting there, so they tend to pour out of me just as fast as I can type. When I get towards the end of a novel, I’m known to pump out 10,000 words in a day. That said, I find the beginnings of novels also very easy. It’s everything in the middle that’s hardest for me, especially with intricate plots, or series books.

S. MAG.: Jack Sigler is brave, bold, and curious to say the least. Tell us something about him that we might not realize is there, just under the surface.

J.R.: He’s a family man. On the surface, his brave, fearless exterior seems like any number of cookie cutter action heroes, but the man is deeper than that. In “Pulse,” we quickly learn that he views his teammates as family. In “Instinct,” King finds love in Sarah Fogg and unlike other action heroes, he sticks with his girl throughout the rest of the series. No philandering for my hero. He’s all about loyalty. In “Threshold,” he takes on a foster daughter, who he comes to love as his own, raising her along with Sarah and the team. He can kick some serious ass, but his dedication to the people he loves is unfaltering, and I think that’s what really makes him a hero.

S. MAG.: How does Mark Hawkins differ from Jack Sigler?

J.R.: Sigler is a military man with extensive knowledge of weapons, combat tactics, global events, language, and a mash of history, mythology, and technology. He is cunning, sharp, and confident, able to look at the most dire situation and see a way to survive. This comes from experience and training and faith in his team.

Hawkins is a former park ranger specializing in tracking. While he has no formal combat training, he has experience tracking

SuspenseMagazine.com 63 dangerous people, discovering dead bodies, and facing off against wildlife, including ISLAND 731 a large grizzly bear. His reactions to dire situations come from two places. Instinct, By Jeremy Robinson which he honed while in the wild, and lessons learned from his surrogate father, Howie Goodtracks, a member of the Ute tribe who taught Hawkins how to hunt, A book full of adventure and track, and respect the natural world. suspense, this is one novel that shows ‘science’ in a whole new horrific light. What they have in common is a deep commitment to their loved ones and a willingness Our story opens in 1942, when to risk everything for the benefit of others. James Coffman—a Navy petty officer— wakes on a beach not knowing how he got there. On his latest assignment, he S. MAG.: What is the craziest thing you have ever done? served on the USS Yorktown, an aircraft carrier in the Pacific Fleet. The last thing J.R.: This might be the hardest question because I’m not the type to do crazy things. James recalls is the Yorktown coming I suppose I live vicariously through the characters in my head. But...let me think... under attack by Japanese planes, and Okay, here it is. While I haven’t jumped out of a plane, faced down a shark, or risked falling into the ocean. James could swear my life in any kind of adrenaline rush attempt, I risked everything by becoming a he felt someone or something dragging writer. And I don’t mean that all writers take the same risk. It’s the way I did it. It him along the beach and the pain he was 2005. I had a daughter and a son on the way. And I had no money. Like none. wakes up with is excruciating. There are faint memories of a laboratory filled So I did what any reasonable father would do, I started my own imprint and lived with people speaking in Japanese as they off of three different credit cards for six months. At the time, I had no idea if it would worked on his body, but when James work. If it didn’t, I and my family were screwed. Seriously screwed. And for six long looks down at his arm, not only is it not months, that’s what it looked like would happen. Then Christmas arrived and like a his…it’s not even human. good Christmas miracle, sales for my three self-published novels took off. My editor Jumping to present day, the reader from Thomas Dunne called a few months later and the rest is history, and earlier is brought aboard a research ship, The this year, I finished paying off the debt incurred from launching my career. Ever since Magellan, with a crew that is intent on Christmas 2005, I have made a full time living as a writer. While this worked for me, studying the Great Pacific Garbage I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone. Those months were the most stressful of my life Patch, an area that is, yes, chock full of garbage. The ship malfunctions and the and it is, by far, the craziest, stupidest thing I ever did. electronics cease to work, halting the ship in this mass of trash. When a storm S. MAG.: Finish this sentence: If I couldn’t write anymore, I’d ? appears, the ship’s men and a couple of women wake up to find themselves in a J.R.: ...travel, everywhere, assuming I could afford it. It’s not fair that my characters cove located on a tropical island, with no get to travel the world to exotic locations and I don’t. In fact, when I’m not writing six memory of how they arrived. novels a year, and my kids are a bit older, extensive travel is the plan. Mark Hawkins, a former park ranger and tracker, thinks he’s seen a S. MAG.: What can fans expect to see from you in the near future? missing crewman on shore and pulls a team together for a rescue mission. But as these people start wandering around J.R.: While this is probably a short answer for many authors, it never is for me, so this eerie island, a great many so-called bear with me. I’m currently working on two large projects, Godless, a horror movie, ‘animals’ are found and evidence of a which I’m writing and producing and will be shooting in June IF we can secure human experimentation program soon financing. I’m also currently writing “I Am Cowboy,” a novella featuring Milos scares the daylights out of them. Vesely, aka Cowboy, from “Secondworld.” “I Am Cowboy” should be out sometime As crewmembers start to disappear, in the Spring. In March, “Island 731” comes out in hardcover from Thomas the truth that they are not alone on this Dunne Books. Sometime in June/July, “Prime,” the Chess Team Origin novel will horrific island becomes clear. And some be released. In August, 47 North will be releasing “The Sentinel” and “The Raven,” very real enemies from the past are still alive and well on Island 731. Jane Harper horror novels under my pen name, Jeremy Bishop. Then in October, This is one creepy tale that will we have “Omega,” the fifth Jack Sigler novel. And some time in there, I’ll release keep you up all night! And it is so well- the sequel to “Project Nemesis” and possibly a five-book serialized novel written written you will think twice before with four co-authors, titled “Shift.” That’s not too much, is it? taking a vacation to any so-called ‘Island Paradise!’ Enjoy! It was great to catch up to Jeremy and slow him down long enough Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “13: to talk to us. To keep up to date on all of this and more, visit his website Tallent & Lowery Book One” published at: www.jeremyrobinsononline.com, and signing up for the newsletter by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of which is sent out with each new book release. ■ Suspense Magazine ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 64 STAR-

CrossedBy Tim Smith

“At the top of the news, another mutilated body found in what appears to be a series…” He turned the radio off. It was late. He was tired, too tired for stories of death and human tragedy, particularly on a lonely highway deep in the Kentucky hills. If he wasn’t careful he might work himself up. He was hungry, too. He climbed another hill and felt the deep sudden pull of the sedan’s cruise control as it struggled to maintain seventy. He wanted to get to Louisville before dawn, but he was a good hour and half away and almost all of it was rolling tree-lined peaks and valleys. He’d taken this route before; many times. It was a pretty drive, particularly at twilight in the fall with all the leaves turning. But this was winter, and Columbus took longer than he expected. The normally glorious foliage and scenic hills were now just dark, pendulous reminders that the path he traveled was—at best—the width of a highway with little signs of human existence along the way. What’s worse, it looked like he was in for a storm. A person traveling by himself on a night like tonight was just asking for a flat, or worse… Sullivan shook his head and turned the radio back on, finding an easy listening station. Just as he suspected, he was working himself up. Fifteen minutes later he caught a sign and ten minutes after that pulled into the truck stop. He negotiated his way through the presumptive and careless blockade of eighteen wheelers and found a parking space near the front. The bright lights of the diner promised heated air so he didn’t bother to retrieve his coat from the back seat. He did check his moustache for crumbs; he liked to snack on the road. He also gave his plastered, thinning hair a quick pat down and push, adjusting his comb-over in a futile attempt to cover more of his bald spot. He didn’t know why he bothered. He was certainly not an overly vain man, and had nothing to be vain about if he were. But he liked to be presentable, even in a truck stop in Kentucky. It was a habit born from any early predilection and reinforced over time by his profession. It paid to look like you were trying in his line of work. He shut the car off and left the comforts of the sedan, relishing the short cold walk to the door and its stark contrast from his artificially heated air. A soft electronic bell went off as he opened the door. He walked into renewed warmth, the smells of coffee and bacon and just the hint of human perspiration, his hunger growing with each step inside. The diner was about what he expected. A tired, hard-faced woman stood and leaned against the long front counter, holding a pot of coffee in one hand. Her faded yellow uniform and stained white apron were as timeless and redundant as the expression on her face. From time to time, she would reflexively top off the cups of the men across the porcelain divide then return to her lean. Her apparent sole interest was the muted TV behind her which she watched with almost illicit intensity. The three men across from her were dressed in flannel shirts and jeans and each wore a stained denim hat with a different logo, the bills bent down and around their eyes like awnings over shadowed porches. The men were talking in lazy, ironic rhythms about everything and nothing with frequent pauses to eat or drink. They never looked at each other, but occasionally turned a hopeful, mildly licentious gaze to the waitress from under the shadows of their hat. She ignored them all, her eyes

SuspenseMagazine.com 65 reserved for the TV and her own thoughts. The men at the counter turned almost as one to watch him walk in the door, sizing him up in an instant with his button- down, short-sleeved white shirt (he never wore long sleeves, even in winter), dark belt, business slacks, and polished shoes. But they saw too the telling slouch and distended belly, the slow, leg-stretching walk, the long-distance absent stare. They wryly dismissed him as harmless, recognizing a fellow traveler, probably a salesman; one class removed by consequence of his mode of transportation but a distant member of the nomadic tribe just the same. He acknowledged the group with a nod, which one man returned and the others ignored. As he walked along the diner counter he was struck by a not-unexpected sense of excitement and apprehension. Should he sit next to the truckers? He knew himself to be an ironically gregarious person, reserving all his charm and attention for strangers and customers while hardly saying more than was absolutely necessary to his wife and children at home. It served him well on both fronts: home and business. He had no doubt that with little effort he would soon be welcomed and deep in conversation with the truckers if he wished. He doubted that they were traveling together. They would hardly notice one more in their spontaneous off-road assembly. His hunger mixed with excitement as he considered the possibilities and drew alongside the men. But he didn’t stop. It didn’t feel right. For one thing, there were too many for him. Too many eyes that would have too much time to watch, discern, and remember. He liked his encounters more intimate. He did better one-on-one. And he was hungry and he wanted to be comfortable and enjoy his satiation. He shuffled by, looking at the tables, knowing the waitress was wondering if he was going to make her come around the counter to wait on him. Well, he just might. It was his prerogative to sit where he liked. Besides, she might welcome the change of pace. He could be charming to waitresses as easily as truckers—maybe more so. Then he saw the only other customer sitting at the farthest end of the counter. He was so far from the others and so inside himself he was almost lost in shadow. He was dressed in a well-worn, faded, green army coat, a dark turtleneck, and a small black stocking cap. The cap was rolled up to sit on top of his curly hair like a crown. He had the look of someone who spent more time recently outdoors than in and his hands and face where a shiny wind-burned red. He was drinking a cup of coffee and looking at the linoleum counter. Without thinking Sullivan walked the length of the counter and took a seat next to the man in the army jacket. He heard one of the truckers mumble something, followed immediately by derisive laughter from the other two. The waitress pulled a menu and porcelain cup from under the counter, walked down and poured Sullivan a cup of coffee without asking. She reached in her apron and tossed some small containers of cream next to his cup. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked, as if coffee was an altogether different enterprise. “Water would be fine,” he said. She turned and made her way back to the station with efficient, bored energy, getting him a plastic cup of ice and water and setting it down in front of him with a straw which she again pulled from her apron. She reached once more into the apparently bottomless apron and found a pad and pencil. “Something to eat?” He looked to the menu. As always, he felt pressed to answer quickly and he took the first thing he recognized as familiar. “Two eggs over easy and white toast, please.” The waitress wrote it down, walked back to the middle of the counter and put the ticket on a hanging spin wheel where eventually a dark, hairy hand reached out and removed it to the dark confines of the kitchen. Sullivan waited for a moment, letting time settle things once more. As he expected, the distance between the others and their end of the table gave them a sense of privacy. When it felt right he turned his head slightly in the direction of his neighbor only to find the other anticipated him by a heartbeat. “It’s cold out there,” said the man in the cap. Sullivan nodded, “It is.” “Where are you headed?” The man’s voice was like his face, raw with exposure. “West.” “Business or pleasure?” “Business.” “Salesman?” “That’s right.” He turned more completely to the other, offered a beefy, well-manicured hand. “Bill Sullivan.” The other looked for a just moment at the hand then slowly reached out and shook it once, in a grip as hard and raw as

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 66 his face. “Mike,” said the other, his strong grip suddenly belied by the smile in his eyes. “What about you, Mike?” asked Sullivan, with no sign of irony. “Are you traveling on business as well?” The other grinned at the question, looking down quickly at his attire and tilting his head in mock embarrassment, “Not hardly.” His expression changed again, becoming humble and slightly desperate. “We’ll I’ve asked everyone else so I’ll try you as well, Bill, and I hope you’ll take no offense. The fact is I could use a lift. West is just fine and I’ll appreciate any distance. I was working for a fishing vessel out East until about a month ago. I’m making my way now to California and my sister. Says she’ll put me up for a while until I can find something out there. I have money. I can pay you up front for gas and whatever you think is fair.” The waitress came around then to check on their coffee and both men grew quiet until she left again. “We’ll I suppose that’s all right,” said Sullivan. “A little help with gas will be enough.” The relief on Mike’s face was like a suddenly clear sky after a long and gloomy afternoon. “Bill, you don’t know how that makes me feel. I had a feeling when you walked through the door, don’t ask me why. I guess the world hasn’t gone to hell yet.” As if to argue against this point, the waitress suddenly turned the TV up. “Oh, come on, Millie,” said one of the truckers, “leave it alone.” Millie ignored him and listened attentively, shooing everyone in the diner to silence. “…Police confirm now six victims of what is being officially termed a serial killing. The latest is seventy-five-year-old Miss Annie Dale of Harbors Springs, Maryland. Miss Dale was found with severe cuts and abrasions similar to past victims along various locations of the East coast. Police are now ready to reveal the same weapon was used in all six killings. Forensics has determined the weapon to be a curved blade of some kind, possibly a fishing knife. Miss Dale was found by her daughter in her rural home where she lived alone. Anyone with information regarding…” The waitress turned the volume down again. “That’s a goddamn shame,” mumbled one of the truckers. “That’s the East,” said another. L“ ot of damn immigrants. You watch; it’ll turn out to be some Hussein or Boris or such.” No one answered him. There was a ping from the kitchen and a plate appeared on the dividing counter. Millie picked it up and brought it to Sullivan. “Anything else? Ketchup? More water, coffee?” “Some more water, please,” answered Sullivan. “And I guess a little more coffee, too.” Millie took care of him and went back to the truckers who were now adamantly discussing the new world and all its woes. “Serial killers are typically white, Hank, and you know it,” said one, shuffling his butt to a precarious new position on the stool. “So it’s a Boris, then,” said the one named Hank. “Them goddamn Russians would soon as take an axe to your head as look at you.” “Ukrainians are worse,” said the first. “You’re both talking about things you don’t know,” said the third trucker. “And anyways, it’s not just the East. Manson was out of California, remember?” Hank shrugged, “They got immigrants in California, too. Lots of ‘em. Millie, how about a touch up on this coffee?” Mike let Sullivan eat his eggs and toast in silence. When he was finished, Sullivan pushed the plate away and brushed two fingers reflexively through his moustache. “That’s better,” he said to no one in particular and then he waived Millie down. He paid his bill, leaving a modest tip by his coffee cup. Only then did he turn to Mike. “Ready to go?” he asked. “Just let me hit the john.” Before he left, though, he reached into his coat and put a twenty on the table next to Sullivan. “For gas,” he said, nodding at the bill. “Thanks,” said Sullivan. “I’ll fill up and then we’ll be on our way.” Mike met Sullivan’s eyes for a moment. Did he think Sullivan was going to run out on him? “Okay then,” said Mike with a soft smile. “I’ll meet you at the gas pump.” * Mike was tall and the first thing he did was say how much he appreciated the leg room in American made cars. He then made a point of stretching out his long legs. After that, he just sat back and stared out the window as they made their way onto the highway. Sullivan liked it warm in the car, especially when it was cold outside

SuspenseMagazine.com 67 and he turned the heat way up. He asked Mike if it was too hot, but the other said he liked it just the way it was. He must have, because he kept his hat and coat on the whole time. They drove a while then in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. The tree-covered hills now seemed to reach above and around the sedan, as if to close it in a private cave of moving obscurity. Only the headlights and glow of the dashboard signaled the two men’s presence in the world. Occasionally, they would pass or be passed by another car or truck, but it was getting very late now and more often than not they made their way alone. After a time, of course, they talked about it. “He’s right,” said Mike. “That trucker. It’s not just the East. I imagine if we could see it mapped out across the states it would be pretty much everywhere.” Sullivan nodded, “I think you’re right.” He surreptitiously checked his comb-over in the mirror. “You think it’s always been there, or is it getting worse?” Mike shrugged, “I guess worse is a relative question. You’ve got the Ripper and that fellow that killed all those guests in his hotel, and probably a lot more that got away with it that we’ll never know about. Then there’s Manson, and Bundy, and Dahmer, and the rest. I guess it’s always been there, we’re just more aware of it now. The news,” he finished, as if that explained it all. Sullivan chewed his moustache as a light rain began to fall. He turned the wipers on delay. Mike’s face was lost in the shadows of the dashboard. Sullivan watched him from the corner of his eye as he played with something in his coat. “They’re getting better at it though,” said Mike a moment later. “What do you mean?” asked Sullivan. “Well, you got all that CSI and crime shows now. You’d have to be stupid not to pay attention to what they’re about and take precautions—I mean, if you’re going to do that kind of thing. You know, hair and fingerprints and all that stuff. Even if this East coast killer did use the same blade in the past, I’d bet money he gets rid of it now. Probably will move, too. That’s how they get away it, the ones who never get caught pay attention and change up.” Sullivan felt the sweat roll down his lower back and sides. He turned the heater down a level with a touch of his steering wheel control system. “You hear things, of course,” said Sullivan, concentrating on the road. “Urban legends mostly; comes with the territory of traveling sales. But there was this one I heard a cop talk about once in Arizona, I guess it was no legend. This guy traveled across the country, picking up strangers or getting picked up. This was about fifteen years back by the way. This guy took them to off-the-road motels, one of those “no questions asked” dumps. I’ve stayed in a few in my time and most don’t even bother to ask for ID if you pay in cash and couldn’t bother with cameras and such back then. The cop said they think he used some kind of threat or drug when he got them alone because he always bound them up tight. Anyway, he stays with them maybe a day, maybe two, never asks to have the sheets changed or the room cleaned. He tortured them, you see, before he killed them. He apparently used anything he could get his hands on: boiling water, hangers, even toothbrushes and paper edges. The cop said you’d be surprised by what a person could do to another just with the simple things lying around and the will to use them.” “But he was smart,” said Mike. “Changed it up and used the things at hand. I bet that made it harder to catch him.” Sullivan nodded, “They got some things from like you said, the forensics, when they actually found two of the bodies— that’s how they thought they saw a pattern. They think it was his first two victims because after that he changed, again like you said. He didn’t leave the bodies in the room anymore, if he even used rooms anymore. But there were missing persons that went unexplained over the years and the cop reckoned that some of them might be his because they never did catch him. The cop said the F.B.I. let some of the details out one time, hoping to get lucky, have someone call in. No one did.” Sullivan stared out at the road. In the pause, he could hear the wind picking up outside the car. “I think he did change,” said Sullivan quietly. “I think about it from time to time driving my routes. I can just see him picking someone up and finding a place like this, in the woods somewhere, someplace where you can pull off a bit, turn the lights off and not worry about seeing another car for some time. I’ve seen little pull-offs like that on this very road. I imagine he could have all the time in the world if he wanted,” Sullivan shrugged. “Or maybe not. Maybe he takes him to a private house somewhere now. Who knows?” Mike looked out the window at the dark hills passing by, “That’d be a good way to do it: in the woods. Probably get away with it for years.” Sullivan seemed to wake up then from his reflection. He could smell perspiration in the air now, the bitter-sweet odor of deodorant and sweat. Was it him or his passenger? The rain started to come down hard then as they went down a long,

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 68 twisting hill. Sullivan turned the wipers up. “The really smart thing to do,” he said suddenly, surprising himself, “would be to stop for a time. They say it can’t be done, that usually escalates and that’s what gets them caught. But what if they did stop? He could just go on living his regular life like nothing ever happened and know that he could pick it up again any time he wanted. I mean, how would anybody ever know? It’s not like he was going to tell anyone. It’s not like it shows. They probably look just like you and me.” Mike chuckled, “Well, like me anyway.” Sullivan looked quickly at Mike who was still grinning, but staring out the window at the rain. “I asked a lot of people for a ride before you said yes, Bill,” explained Mike. “I guess my looks and attire don’t necessarily set people at ease. Not like you. You got harmless written all over you. You married?” Sullivan hesitated, felt himself blush. What had he been saying? Why was he talking to this man about all this? He was grateful that the dashboard light probably couldn’t show how red his face was. “I am,” he answered a little louder than he intended. “We have two kids: ten and twelve, boy and girl. The girl is the oldest.” “Pictures?” “In my wallet, but I can’t get to it just now.” “Families are nice,” said Mike. “I never settled down myself. I guess there’s still time, but well, I just don’t know if that’s for me.” He turned from the window to stare at Sullivan, his tone shifting slightly and hinting at other meanings. “You know what I mean, Bill?” Sullivan licked his moustache with a suddenly dry tongue. He thought he knew what the other meant, but he didn’t dare answer. They drove in awkward silence then for a time, the sound of the wind and rain were the only sounds of life, but the two men’s breathing. Sullivan thought about turning on the radio, but couldn’t bring himself to reach for the button. “That really was nice of you to pick me up, Bill,” said Mike, leaning toward Sullivan just a fraction, his voice dropping another octave. “Not a lot of men would do that for another man nowadays.” Sullivan stared determinedly out the window, turning the wipers down again as the rain lessened. “No moon tonight,” said Mike, leaning back once more and turning to look out his window again. “Dark. Glad I’m not out in this mess. I guess I owe you a lot, Bill. I bet you’re a good husband and father, too. I can tell. And I bet you miss them a lot when you are out on the road. Gets lonely, doesn’t it? Lot of time to think.” Without turning from the window Mike reached out a hand, the one not in his jacket, and patted Sullivan on his shoulder. Sullivan swallowed, looked down at the speedometer and was surprised to see it above eighty. He eased up a bit on the pedal, trying to make the adjustment look natural. “Look, Mike,” he started to say, and then he had to swallow again and cough out the rough spot in his throat. “I don’t mean anything by this, okay?” Mike turned to look directly at Sullivan again, his face half lit by the dashboard and half in shadow. “I mean it’s okay with me. I don’t make any judgments,” continued Sullivan. “I’m just driving, taking you along the road, doing you a favor, you know?” “What are you talking about?” asked Mike, his voice taking on a little edge. “I mean, I’m not looking for anything, you understand? I’m not that way.” Mike laughed, a sense of disbelief in his voice, “You think I’m hitting on you?” Sullivan glanced nervously at Mike, “I don’t mean anything by this, either way. You have the right to be whatever you want to be. I don’t make any judgments.” There was another long, awkward pause, Sullivan again looking determinately out the windshield, Mike studying his face from the shadows. “Do you want me to hit on you, Bill?” asked Mike slowly. “You know some men go through a lifetime hiding what they are except when they find that right place and that right person they can be their real selves around, if only for a little while. Are you one of those men, Bill?” Sullivan felt his heart racing, “No,” he said, trying to make it sound casual, confident. Mike didn’t answer for a time. The heat from car vents was suddenly oppressive, even to Sullivan. The sweat was now dripping profusely from his head. “I’m not gay,” said Mike quietly, finally. “You can relax. I’m not expecting anything like that from you, Bill.” Sullivan heard the truth of it and turned with sense of relief and chagrin, “I’m sorry, Mike. I think I’m all wound up.” “No problem. And don’t be sorry. You’d be surprised how often people pick me up hoping I will be that right person for

SuspenseMagazine.com 69 them. I’m glad we got that out of the way.” The rain suddenly stopped. Sullivan turned the wipers off, felt the now cold sweat of relief run down his arm and side. Jodie Renner Editing “You know,” he said with a dry chuckle. “I’m going to have to pull over. Sorry. I should have hit the bathroom like you before we left.” Fiction Editing and Critiquing Services “I’m only renting that coffee, too,” said Mike, “and it’s come due again for me, too. I don’t think we’re going to find a place www.JodieRennerEditing.com anytime soon though out here.” Specializing in thrillers, “You’re right. And I can’t wait.” romantic suspense, He checked the road behind him. It disappeared into a & other crime �iction long dark line with no sign of life. Sullivan carefully pulled to the side of the highway and turned the lights off. “You going to put on the emergency lights?” asked Mike. “Can’t afford a public indecency charge,” explained Sullivan Look for Jodie’s craft of �iction articles on these blogs: Crime Fiction Collective, Blood-Red Pencil, The Thrill with another chuckle. Begins,“Jodie Writer’sRenner worked Forensics, with me and to transform Suspense my Magazine. thriller, “I hear you.” , from an exciting book to a tight, suspenseful, heart-pounding thrill ride.” They climbed from the car. With the car lights off, they The Lonely Mile could barely see their hands in front of their faces. “Jodie edited my last three novels and - Allan did aLeverone “Maybe we should walk a little off the curb, get behind terri�ic job. … Highly recommended!” those trees,” suggested Mike. “Just in case we have the bad luck “I rate Jodie 6 stars out of 5!” - LJNo Sellers Remorse of having a cop come down that hill.” - Ian Walkley, Sullivan nodded, “That’s a good idea. You need a flashlight? Free sample edit for new clients I got one in the car.” He opened his car door again, reached behind the seat, and grabbed what he needed. “No, they might see that, too.” “Yeah, that’s a good point,” said Sullivan, standing again and shutting the door. He looked again down the long dark highway and then with a shrug, put what he pulled from the car in his pocket. The fresh air felt great, but he didn’t want to stay out here very long. He walked a bit into the woods, deliberately putting some distance between himself and Mike. When he finally found a good spot and urinated, it was like a moment of bliss. The cold winter night was a welcome contrast on his hot, sticky shirt and the release of pressure on his bladder was second only to the relief he felt in his mind. He had worked himself up despite himself. Too many possibilities: he almost let his imagination get the better of him. That wouldn’t do, not with a stranger in his car, not now. Finished, Sullivan tucked himself away and stood for a moment in the dark, listening. The sudden silence brought about by his presence receded as the restless night sounds of insects and small animal life slowly returned. He watched for a moment the steam rise from his meaty arms like some primordial mist. He felt the cold begin to work its way deliciously passed his fevered skin and into his muscles. He stared into the dark woods before him and thought about Mike. He thought about the long lonely road ahead and their isolation. He thought about the possibilities, then and now. It was, he realized, just possible. But would he dare? Yes, he decided, he would. Mike was the right person in the right place and it had been such a long, long time… A few moments later, Sullivan heard the snap of a small twig behind him. He turned quickly, reflexively hiding his hands behind his back. The small brown bottle he lifted from under the sedan’s seat was already back in his pocket, his other tools in either hand. Mike stood silhouetted in the night not an arm’s length away, something cold and curved hanging from his right hand. He moved it almost casually, deliberately across Sullivan’s belly, drawing a tattered red line across Sullivan’s button down shirt. The line became a spill and the spill became a river of blood. Even as Sullivan dropped the drugged cloth in his left hand and felt the terrible cold, burning line of pain along his middle, even as he used the blade in his right hand to slash a similarly deadly gash across the other’s exposed neck, even as he wondered at the impossible agony, agony he had so often visited on others over the years—but only vicariously until now—even as he fell to his knees in ironic wonder and stained his pants and thought fleetingly of his wife and children and how this was all wrong, wrong, wrong…even then he wondered: what were the possibilities? ■

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 70 Stark Obsessions Meet Adam Baker By Suspense Magazine Photo Credit: Noel Baker Adam Baker is back with his latest book “Juggernaut,” in a unique writing style that has drawn rave reviews from many authors including this by Jonathan Maberry: “ ‘Juggernaut’ is a high-voltage shock to the system. It’s smart, witty, crammed with action and disturbingly plausible. Highly recommended.” Born in 1969 in Europe, Baker is the son of a Gloucestershire priest. He studied theology and philosophy, but has also worked as a gravedigger, a mortuary attendant, and short order cook in New York City. With a highly diverse background, Adam is able to use his experiences, especially the short order cook (kidding) to bring fans fast-paced books that will leave them gasping. “Outpost” was Adam’s first book, back in August 2011. “Juggernaut” keeps up the pace and is out now. Here is a little sneak peek inside the book:

Iraq, 2005. Seven mercenaries hear an enticing rumor: somewhere, abandoned in the swirling desert sands, sits an abandoned Republican Guard convoy containing millions of pounds of Saddam’s gold. The mercenaries form an unlikely crew of battle-scarred privateers, killers, and thieves, veterans of a dozen war zones, each of them anxious to make one last score before their luck runs out. After liberating the sole surviving Guard member from U.S. capture, the team makes their way to the ancient ruins where the convoy was last seen. Although all seems eerily quiet and deserted when they arrive, they soon find themselves caught in a desperate battle for their lives, confronted by greed, betrayal, and an army that won’t stay dead.

A heart-pounding, fast-paced read, “Juggernaut” (April 2012/ Thomas Dunne Books) marks Adam Baker’s U.S. debut. It is a brilliant, gripping portrait of survival in the face of annihilation. “Juggernaut” is loaded with smart-ass banter, high stakes action, and realistic fight scenes.

Adam took time out of his busy schedule to speak with us.

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Can you give us a behind-the-scenes look at “Juggernaut”?

Adam Baker (A.B.): One of the main characters in “Juggernaut” is called Jabril. He used to work for one of Sadaam Hussein’s intelligence agencies, and is haunted by the torture and killing he authorized as a routine part of his day.

SuspenseMagazine.com 71 I’ve always been fascinated by the ways people accommodate themselves to totalitarian regimes. Here in Europe, we have the recent and vivid example of Nazism. During the mid-1930s, the Nazi high command rolled out the T4 euthanasia program. They instructed doctors in hospitals across Germany to assess physically and mentally handicapped patients to decide which were worthy of life, and which were to be put to death by lethal injection. Some doctors refused to participate in the T4 program on moral grounds, but a surprising number of medical personnel felt no qualms about taking part in the hope of advancing their careers.

S. MAG.: What book changed your life and why?

A.B.: “The Collected Short Stories of HP Lovecraft.”

I was a miserable kid. I hated school. The only refuge to be found was pulp horror paperbacks bought from a newsstand on my way home. One day I bought a thick anthology of Lovecraft stories, mainly because there was a quote from Stephen King on the cover declaring Lovecraft “twentieth century horror’s baroque prince.”

Lovecraft is one of those wonderful writers like Conan Doyle or Tolkien that manage to create a fully realized universe. If you want to check out of reality for a while and explore a richly gothic alternate realm, you owe it to yourself to try some Lovecraft.

S. MAG.: With seven mercenaries as your main characters, how difficult is it to keep the pace of your book and all the characters engaged in the story?

A.B.: It’s tough to write about soldiers, to make sure each character is memorable and clearly defined. And it’s tough to keep all of them involved in the plot. But remember, “Juggernaut” is a horror story. Some of those characters won’t be around too long.

S. MAG.: What sentence or paragraph in “Juggernaut” would you say captures the essence of the book?

A.B.: “Wait until your friends lay their eyes on a mountain of gold. You will soon see how much their trust is worth.”

S. MAG.: What is your favorite word and why?

A.B.: Vermillion.

It’s a lovely word to say, if you annunciate slowly and savor every syllable. And if you’ve ever played with oil paint, you’ll know the pleasure of squeezing a rope of glossy vermillion onto the palette.

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 72 S. MAG.: Is there one classic book you would like to write JUGGERNAUT in a more modern setting? By Adam Baker

A.B.: “Frankenstein.” The novel was written in 1818, yet the story seems more All the undead fans unite! This pertinent and contemporary with each passing year. is one book that will bring in fans from almost every genre. Suspense, S. MAG.: “Juggernaut” brings zombies and the military together with some epic mystery, action, paranormal… Baker battles, is it difficult bringing the horror and gore to life through words on the definitely overwhelms the rest. The dictionary says that juggernaut page? is “an overwhelming, advancing force that crushes everything in its path.” That AB: I’m not interested in gore for its own sake. I wouldn’t buy a book simply because definition is right on the money. Rife it promised to be bloodthirsty, and I can’t imagine anyone else would either. But I’m with war, violence, science fiction, and interested in live-for-the-moment tough guys confronted by apparitions that embody plain horror, “Juggernaut” lets readers the one thing they fear: illness, rot, and decay. delve into the parasite/virus that was cleverly written about in “Outpost.” S. MAG.: What scares Adam Baker? Lucy is still at the ‘head of the class’ as the leader of a group of soldiers who work for the highest bidder. The location A.B.: Aging, decrepitude, death. is something all are familiar with— war torn Iraq. After all the incredible One of the ritual moments in any zombie story is a scene in which one of the good workload and strain they’ve been under, guys gets bitten, and has to decide how to face his end. Heroic characters usually early retirement is a definite goal. And to choose some form of altruistic suicide. Blow themselves up, taking a bunch of zombies be fabulously rich on Saddam’s gold that with them. was promised to them, makes this goal even more fun. Sadly, things do not go Death used to be a major subject of contemplation for cultivated noblemen of Europe as planned. during the middle ages. Latin texts such as “Ars Moriendi” (1415) would instruct a Along with the mercenaries comes a gallery of spooks: the zombie soldiers— person how to comport themselves and arrange their affairs during a final illness. undead machines that are on the hunt for the convoy that contains much of These days the reality of death has been driven out of our day-to-day lives, but we Saddam’s gold. Heading to where the can’t help but wonder how we will meet our ends. Zombie fiction can help in that convoy was last seen, both groups arrive regard. It is an aspect of the collective subconscious, one that allows us to think about and find themselves caught in a ruthless illness and death at a comfortable distance. battle to see who will win. The author is so very good at what S. MAG.: What is on your bucket list? he does that as a reviewer—with every ounce of action being placed on every page—it is hard to reveal any ‘moments’ A.B.: Must admit, I don’t actually have a bucket list. The simple fact of being alive of unparalleled success or defeat because and sentient is mind-blowing enough, whether you are standing on a tropical beach readers and fans would be highly or wandering around your local mall, swimming with dolphins or mowing your lawn. disappointed to learn everything ahead of time. For those who loved “Outpost,” S. MAG.: Have you explored the darkest parts of your mind yet when writing, or for those who are simply happy that the can you take it a step further? ‘vampire’ reign has come to an end, it is a huge recommendation that you delve A.B.: I’ve always admired JG Ballard, who followed his imagination no matter into these books and disappear into a where it took him. (His 1973 novel “Crash” concerned the erotic power of automobile world you will not believe. Zombies are front and center, along with a lot of accidents. It was famously rejected by a publisher with a scribbled note suggesting blood and gore. A great nighttime read the author was beyond psychiatric help.) On one hand, I’m anxious to entertain the for all who have the courage—this is a reader. But on the other hand, my preoccupation with mortality seems to draw me to great recurring puzzle! bleak territory. I guess all I can do is ride my stark obsessions to the end of the line. Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “13: Tallent & Lowery Book One” published We would like to thank Adam for taking the time to speak with us. To find out by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of much more about Adam and all his works, check out http://darkoutpost.blogspot. Suspense Magazine ■ com/. ■

SuspenseMagazine.com 73 This article is lovingly dedicated to the memory of By Donald Allen Kirch TERRI ANN ARMSTRONG Friend, mentor, and fellow wordsmith A Most Unusual Shroud Italy holds within to an unusual shroud. directions. its national borders more history The Shroud is rectangular in This improbable image of a man per capita than almost any European nature, measuring approximately 14.3 is associated with the ancient Roman country. Now, this is not to belittle x 3.78 feet (4.4 x 1.1 meters). The cloth jurisprudence known as crucifixion, her neighbors! Ask any German, is woven in a three-to-one herringbone and the aftermath of burial. Curious Frenchman, or even a citizen of Great twill composed of flax fibrils. Its most enough, the entire effect of this Shroud Britain where their early start came noticeable feature: the faint image is much clearer in black and white than from and most would reluctantly say, of a front and back view of a naked the natural sepia colors of the stains. “Italy.” man with his hands folded across his Secondo Pia, an amateur It was the cradle of empire, the rise groin. Both front and back views meet photographer, first observed this feature of the Caesars, the Renaissance and the at the middle of the cloth in opposite in 1898, when he had been allowed to questioning of natural laws, and the take a few pictures of the Shroud in launch pad for a religion. The Vatican, case it was ever accidentally destroyed. in the eternal city of Rome, represents In his developing of the negative plate, the official birthplace of the Christian he saw, for the first time ever, the details faith. It was here, the supposed site of associated with the face of the man Saint Peter’s entombment, and former imprinted upon the cloth. site of an ancient temple dedicated to This man, according to both history Venus, that Emperor Constantine made and legend was Jesus Christ. the outlawed sect known as Christianity “For the first time since our the official state religion of the Roman Apostles had walked upon the earth Empire. It was here where Christopher and broke bread with him, I have laid Columbus challenged the faith in eyes upon the face of our Lord.” These stating that the world was indeed were the only words Pia could relate to “round.” And it is from these ancient that fantastic moment. walls that the Pope ruled the continent Since days of antiquity, churches, of Europe until the States wished to kings, and scientists have debated the separate themselves from God. origins of the Shroud of Turin. The Still, with all this power, history, faithful claim it to be the actual burial and triumph, during certain parts of cloth of Christ, and that it is his image we the year, the eyes of the faithful do not see. Others state that it is a remarkable look toward the Vatican, toward Rome, work of art, and nothing more. Still or even the Pope. They turn toward a others claim it as a fraud used by the small village in Northern Italy. Toward A close-up picture taken by Pia in 1898. Church to control the faithful and the town of Turin, where they play host Could this be the face of Jesus Christ? weak-minded. The Catholic Church

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 74 has neither endorsed nor rejected the with the focused voice of the skeptic. Templar. Again...why would he risk all Shroud; however, in 1958, Pope Pius XII Popes have tried to quell the masses, that history for simple satisfaction? approved the famous image upon the kings have tried to challenge its power, The Shroud seems to have only cloth as the accepted holy resemblance and artists have tried to duplicate it. one “witness” that backs up its story: of the face of Jesus. “If she is a fake,” one famous scientist The New Testament. The Gospels of In 1978, a special federation of admitted, “she is a brilliant one.” Matthew, Mark, and Luke all state that scientists found no evidence of forgery, The pivotal year surrounding the Jesus’s body had been wrapped within and called to question how the cloth Shroud could be narrowed down to a burial cloth supplied by Joseph of had been artificially created. Officially, 1390. In fact, most Shroud experts Arimathea. The Gospel of John deviates they proclaimed the markings upon separate the history of this artifact from this, but only slightly, by stating the Shroud “a mystery.” In 1988, using 1390 as “Year Zero.” Meaning, that Joseph applied “strips of linen.” three laboratories were given small most people associate two timelines Upon investigating the tomb afterward, samples of the Shroud, hoping to put with the Shroud: before 1390 and after Peter was said to have discovered pieces its authenticity to a final test with 1390. of linen upon the dirt floor—this could radiocarbon dating. The first recorded mentioning of be referring to the fact that two separate The results were illuminating and the Shroud’s existence came in 1390 cloths had been used—one for the body disastrous at the same time. when Bishop Pierre d’Arcis wrote a and one for the head. The University of Oxford, the complaint to Pope Clement VII, stating In 1983, the House of Savoy gave University of Arizona, and the Swiss that the Shroud was a forgery and that the Shroud to the Catholic Church. As Federal Institute of Technology he held a written confession from the with all past statements, the Mother concurred that all their samples date artist. This confession, however, has Church held true to her original to the Middle Ages, between 1260 and escaped into the pitfalls of time. standing on this artifact. Pope John 1390. At this time, the Shroud was housed Paul II once addressed the assembly in The Holy Shroud of Turin was...a in Lirey, France. Turin, saying, “The Shroud is an image fake. In 1578, the Shroud was deeded of God’s love as well as of human sin. Or was it? to the House of Savoy, where it was The imprint left by the tortured body People, in general, do not place then moved to the village of Turin. As of the Crucified One, which attests to their faith into something if it is of the 17th century, the cloth has been the tremendous human capacity for considered false. Still, after all the news, displayed within a church constructed causing pain and death to one’s fellow facts, and certainties there are people for that very purpose by Guarino man, stands as an icon of the suffering who still flock to Turin, hoping above Guarini. of the innocent in every age.” all hope. They look science in the face The original “recorded” owner of As time passed, the Church has and proclaiming for all to hear, “I... the Shroud was French Knight Geoffroi decided to leave the judgment of the believe!” de Charny, who would later perish at Shroud’s authenticity to that of the The image of the “Man of the the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. Some personal beliefs of the faithful. This Shroud” has a beard, mustache, and claim that it was this gentleman who author agrees with that choice. shoulder-length hair parted in the commissioned a local artist, who had One fantastic theory has come middle. He is rather tall for his day; also been known to be a convicted forward that even questions the last various experts place him between five- murderer, to help create the hoax. But sentence written, almost to the point foot-seven and six-foot-two. this is all highly unlikely, when you where I even tend to doubt the Shroud. Where the validity of the consider the personal character of the Could the Shroud of Turin be an radiocarbon tests come into question is Knight in question. Geoffroi de Charny extraordinary attempt by Fourteenth the fire of 1532. The Shroud had once was responsible for authoring the Century artists as history’s first been saved from a disastrous fire in French Knight’s Book of Chivalry. One PHOTOGRAPH? Chambery, France, where the chapel in who places so much value in truth, and Some art historians claim that in which it was residing had burned to the later dies for his king, would hardly ally the late 13th century, there had been a ground. There are more than twenty- himself with murderers and help create translation of an Arabic book, from its two holes in the ancient cloth due to the a hoax. At least not back in a time original Greek, which was entitled “The melting of the silver box in which the where family honor was as important Book of Optics.” There were alchemists cloth had been placed at the time of the as life itself. Better still, an ancestor in the day who knew about this ancient fire. Triangular patches were later sewn of de Charny’s had been a high priest piece of literature, and the elements onto the Shroud, after the damage, by in the religious order of The Knights needed could have produced an image Poor Clare nuns. Skeptics of the radiocarbon dating process state that residue from this fire could have messed up the actual age results applied centuries later. Fake or genuine, one must agree with the following: The Shroud of Turin is a most unusual piece of cloth. Her history is clouded with honor, bombarded with faith, and cascaded The Shroud of Turin

SuspenseMagazine.com 75 upon any form of cloth such as the eighteenth time in history, the Holy needs of the desperate or gullible. These Shroud of Turin. Some scholars even Shroud was once more placed on last hurt us all—even the atheist. An go as far as to name the artist, they feel, public display. According to Church atheist, in fact, is only a believer whose could have been responsible.... Officials, more than two million people heart has been so broken or cheated Leonardo de Vinci. worldwide came to visit. upon, that even a resurrection will This amazing statement claims that In 2012, in his book “The Sign,” not save its independently-rhythmic de Vinci used a real corpse, obtained an art historian Thomas de Wesselow beat. Some of history’s most passionate odd-shaped piece of linen, treated the has come to view the image upon the prophets started out in life as either body with photo-sensitive chemicals Shroud as genuine. With this in mind, agnostics or athiests. and then exposed the macabre scene he has also stated for the record that The Shroud of Turin in itself may via a camera obscura device in use at he, religiously, remains an agnostic in not be what the faithful hope it to be. the time. Only the mind of de Vinci, the matters of the resurrection of Jesus. It has the very real potential of being some state, could have had the creativity Whatever the means of the application just what the data claims—a fantastic needed to captivate so many for so long. of the image, de Wesselow states it had piece of historical and religious art. Or It’s a romantic notion. However, caused the Disciples to believe in the it could honestly be that of the burial as others have pointed out, a double resurrection, thereby launching the cloth of an important religious prophet, photographic exposure, given the time genesis of the Christian Faith. teacher, and leader of peace. period most are talking about, would Physicist Giulio Fanti published Genuine or forgery, the Shroud have failed to consider the dark areas a major hypothesis upon his theories stands alone as a mysterious icon of of photographic superimposition, on the Shroud. His view of the image’s faith. And faith is something that lights, and shades. The Shroud itself, birth reinforces the story behind Jesus’ science cannot measure. ■ and its image as a photograph, would resurrection with just two words: have been too complex a creation in “Corona discharge.” If you are interested in learning more the Thirteenth or Fourteenth Centuries In the arena of religious belief, about the author and his work go to: in regards to both distance and body there are givers and takers. There are www.donaldallenkirch.com. To learn position. enough signs and portents to satisfy more about the “Stranger Than Fiction” Even though science has labeled any hunger, or seeker of the truth. Since radio program go to: www.facebook. this icon as a fraud, people still choose the beginning of time, there have been com/StrangerThanFictionRadio. to believe. In April 2010, for the those who seek to capitalize off the

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 76 ike many fans, we have followed New York Times bestselling author Andrew Gross since he was writing six No. 1 thrillers with James Patterson.L Coming off of his successful book “15 Seconds,” Andrew is back to take thriller fans on another exciting journey with “No Way Back.” Many authors write about what they know and wrap the suspense/thriller plot inside their expertise. Andrew however, had a personal tragedy and took that as his inspiration in his book “Eyes Wide Open.” Andrew is not just simply a page- turning, emotionally gripping thriller writer, he steps into another level with the extensive creativity in his books. Andrew’s journey into becoming an author took a much different path than most writers. Having submitted a spec manuscript called “HYDRA,” he instead received a call from James Patterson, who wanted to talk about some projects he didn’t have time to write. Well, as we say the rest is history, and Andrew ended up writing six No. 1-selling thrillers with Patterson, and then going out on his own with “The Blue Zone” and again, the rest we say is thrilling history. With his next book “The Dark Tide,” fans were introduced to his series character Ty Hauck. “No Way Back” is not a Ty Hauck book, but instead a thrill ride of a different sort. Well, enough of me talking, let’s see what Andrew has in store for us with “No Way Back”:

Wendy Gould is an attractive, happy suburban mom, waiting at a tony Manhattan bar to meet a friend, when a chance encounter with a charming stranger ends up in a hotel room she should never have entered. Quickly coming to her senses and in the bathroom about to leave, an intruder finds his way in the room and shots ring out. Her companion is murdered, and when a gun ends up in her hands, Wendy has to make a split-second decision to save her life, propelling it on an irreversible course: the only witness to a cold-blooded killing and having to admit to her family where she was. The Art of Forced to run, things only get worse when the authorities—the wrong ones—find their way to her door and an even more terrible act results, one there is no way back from. Thrilling

Lauritzia Velez, meanwhile, is a devoted, An Interview with young nanny. She’s also a woman with a deadly Andrew Gross secret that has made her flee from her past. A past that suddenly catches up with her in the care of the two young lives she is entrusted with. Interview by Suspense Magazine Press Photo Credit: Provided by Publisher SuspenseMagazine.com 77

Alone and scared, these two, strong women with nothing in common will eventually join forces and embark on a dangerous odyssey to find the truth that connects them and retake their shattered lives. It’s a desperate hunt that leads them into an international web of treachery and murder from a wrongful shooting four years ago in Mexico to a shadowy conspiracy that reaches the highest echelons of U.S. government.

It’s always great to talk to Andrew and catch up with him, so check out his interview below.

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): What can you tell us about “No Way Back” that is not on the back cover?

Andrew Gross (A.G.): With everyone so pleased with the success of “15 Seconds”—in which an ordinary hero whose happy life falls apart in an instant and is put in danger from the opening pages—my publisher said, “Give us something like this again—this time, just make it a woman!” In the case of Wendy Gould, in a moment of weakness she steps into a hotel room she should never be in and everything goes south from there.

S. MAG.: Wendy Gould and Lauritzia Velez are your two main characters. What was your thought process to have two women as your protagonists?

A.G.: I’ve always enjoyed writing through the persona of a strong-willed woman who provides the heroic energy of the book. In fact, that’s what first got the attention of James Patterson years ago. His publisher sent him my unpublished manuscript with the words: “This guy does women well!” scratched on the cover. I discussed Wendy above, but as the story weaves through illegal gun trafficking and some immigration horrors, and I came across this case being adjudicated in appeals court that was just so compelling and heart-rendering, I used it as a model for Lauritzia, a woman hiding in the U.S. from a tragic and brutal past. That these two strong but different gals join together and stand up to the brutality of drug recrimination and government conspiracy is one of the highlights of the book to me.

S. MAG.: Is there one scene or sentence in the book that you feels captures the essence of the story?

A.G.: “I think you’ll find Mexico is an excellent place to commit a murder, Mr. Bachman, because you will most certainly get away with it.”

S. MAG.: Pace is very important in thrillers. How difficult is it for you to keep the pace at a high level?

A.G.: Pace is kind of my trademark. I got a graduate degree in it from working with Patterson. Now not everyone’s sense of pace is the same, nor should it be. And while I try to include a bit more texture, character, and scene-setting into my books than Jim, I still try to write books that the reader cannot put down. There are lots of ways to achieve pace—some of it syntactical (sentence structure, crispness of dialogue), and some structural (short chapters, getting in and out of them quickly with a dramatic hook to the next). Some of it is also investing your reader in the plight of your hero right from the opening bell. In the first ten pages. That way, you never lose them.

S. MAG.: During ThrillerFest, you teach a class in craft. What one piece of advice have you received that you hand down to authors?

A.G.: A good thriller should always progress, as the book goes along, in what’s truly at stake. So I tell people, Hey, if your book starts out with a traffic ticket, don’t end up in traffic court! Keep enlarging the stakes. Even if those stakes are personal or emotional.

S. MAG.: “No Way Back” is your seventh standalone book. What one part of your writing do you feel has changed since your first book?

A.G.: I’m not sure I’m the best to answer this one. In fact, I’m finishing up a screenplay for “The Blue Zone,” my first solo book, which got high on the bestseller charts and was sold into twenty-five countries. I was sure I would absolutely hate reading it again

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 78 J.M. “To me, life is about continuous improvement, both in work and LeDuc in self.” THE TRILOGY OF after eight years and look on it as a college effort. To be honest, I went, “Wow—this was actually pretty good.” So I guess I haven’t progressed as much as I thought as a writer. I’m still using many of the techniques I learned when I shifted on my THE CHOSEN own after working with Patterson—just maybe using them more deftly and with a Cryptic messages written in bit more nuance and confidence. On the other hand, everyone keeps telling me my books have gotten better and better, in terms of richness of character, so who the hell Old Testament languages. knows. I’ll go with that! A pleading from the Vatican. S. MAG.: With marketing being so important for an author today, how do you The probability of terrorist stay ahead of the game? involvement. A.G.: It’s funny, when I was in business I was always thought of as a pretty effective and aggressive marketer. But as I’ve gotten older, in this digital universe, I’m a complete blockhead. Of course, like all authors, I do all the requisite things: Facebook, Twitter, website, try to engage my readers daily, build up my library of names. Still, I’ve yet to find the magic formula to make gold out of lead. Branding is one of those things that always looks so smart and elegantly strategized when it succeeds, and always seems so forced and self-serving when it doesn’t. So it’s all a work in process. All I know is, my bank account keeps getting smaller and I’m not sure my name is out there in any more traction.

S. MAG.: You are sitting on a bench and your character Wendy runs up asking for help. What do you tell her?

A.G.: I’d tell her to get the hell away from me! The woman’s being chased by the some very bad sorts. On the other hand, she is kind of sexy, so if my wife wasn’t on the beach with me, I’d probably invite her to lunch.

S. MAG.: When you have to weave so many storylines in “No Way Back,” what one trap do you stay away from?

A.G.: Maybe overweighting one storyline versus the other as you get wrapped up in your own character, and also ensuring that they’re just as interesting and compelling as your principal players. What’s worse than groaning inside every time you see a character you’re not interested in and then paging ahead?

S. MAG.: What does the future hold for Andrew Gross?

A.G.: Working on the next, next book, of course. And trying my hand at screenplays. WELCOME TO To me, life is about continuous improvement, both in work and in self. It isn’t always a straight line—certainly mine wasn’t—but even if you don’t start with all the goods, it kind of makes the whole thing worth it to end up with a bit more wisdom, a bit “CURSED DAYS,” more skill and even a bit more grace that when you began. As always, Andrew is gracious enough to spend some time with us. For WHERE EVERY DAY a lot more information on Andrew and all his work, check him out at :www. andrewgrossbooks.com. ■ COULD BE THE

SuspenseMagazine.com LAST. 79 T. Jefferson Parker Far Corners and Back Rooms

Interview by Suspense Magazine Press Photo Credit: Rebecca Lawson New York Times bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker is back at it with another Charlie Hood novel, the sixth book in the series, titled “The Famous and the Dead.” Charlie Hood debuted in 2008 with “L.A. Outlaws,” and Parker has raised the bar with each book in the series. He started his writing career back in 1985 with “Laguna Heat,” a standalone novel, and launched his first series with the first Merci Rayborn book in 1999, “The Blue Hour.” The author of twenty novels, Parker lived his whole life in Southern California, so you know he has some smarts (yep that’s a jab at cities that have a winter), and is a two time Edgar Award winner, first with “Silent Joe” and then with “California Girl.” Born in 1953, Parker began writing as a journalist for The Newport Ensign. Later, he switched to the Daily Pilot, winning three Orange County Press Club Awards. Here’s a look at “The Famous and the Dead”:

Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputy Charlie Hood is attached to the ATF, working undercover on the iron river that flows across the U.S.-Mexican border. The diamond fillings he wears in his left canine glimmer, distracting the men who sell the illegal firearms that enable the unspeakable violence on both sides of the map. Spotting the sparkle when “Charlie Diamonds” opens his mouth is often their first step toward life behind bars.

Meanwhile, Bradley Jones, sheriff’s deputy and employee of the Baja Cartel, son of the love of Charlie’s life, the deceased L.A. outlaw Suzanne Jones, is expecting a con of his own. Suzanne was descended from famed Mexican desperado Joaquin Murrieta, whose embalmed head Bradley inherited from her and keeps nestled among piles of cash, proceeds from Bradley’s own life of crime.

Charlie knows all of Bradley’s secrets; the question is what he’ll do with the information. Until he decides, his obsession remains the inexplicable existence of Mike Finnegan, the diminutive devil who flits in and out of both men’s lives, knowing things he shouldn’t, seemingly immortal.

T. Jefferson gave us a great interview, check it out below.

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): What can you tell us about “The Famous and The Dead” that is not on the back cover?

T. Jefferson Parker (T.J.P.): I was terrified when I started this novel. I knew I wanted to bring the series to a close, but how was I going to handle all those characters, plots, and subplots, all the unanswered mysteries of the preceding five books? I’ve never written a “sixth and final” thriller in a series before. So I thought and thought and couldn’t imagine that first scene. Weirdly, or perhaps not, the answer was handed to me. I’d agreed months before

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 80 writing it to name a character after a woman I’d never met. to use this gift to protect the people he loves and the She paid for this privilege as part of a cancer fundraiser. She ideals he believes in. I don’t think I’ve ever written asked me over the phone to have some fun with her “character.” a more intriguing scene than that. So I saw this scene in my head where a young woman comes to California from Missouri to tell Charlie Hood’s ATF about S. MAG.: The beginning or the end of a book— some bad guys who were on their way to sell stolen guns in which do you feel has more impact on the California. I named her Mary Kate Boyle, as agreed. And I reader, but which is more difficult to write for loved her. She seemed so fresh to me, because she was stepping the author? onstage for the very first time. And the second she walked on, I knew I had my opening scene, and that I could access the far T.J.P.: I think endings on both counts. Really, if you corners and back rooms of the Hood series through her. And can’t end it well, then you don’t have a great story on that’s too long an answer for the back cover of a book! your hands. Beginnings are easy to write: they’re full of courage and promise—you’ve just rolled out of bed on a S. MAG.: This is your sixth Charlie Hood novel. How has he sunny morning. But by the time I hit the last hundred pages changed from “LA Outlaws”? of a book, I’m aware that all of the courage and promise must be made real. Making them real is the job and the challenge. It’s T.J.P.: He’s less trusting, braver, a better actor. And more truth time. That said, there’s no such thing as a mediocre novel driven, even if it’s to his detriment. In “LA with a great ending—you can only write Outlaws,” Charlie Hood was a young, as good an end as the story deserves. It’s uniformed sheriff’s deputy on patrol. By a matter of what you’ve earned. the time “The Famous and the Dead” opens, he’s an undercover ATF guy S. MAG.: With the Mexican cartel in with diamonds in his teeth and all the the news all the time, how close did you swagger and sass of a gun trafficker. But have to get to research them for your Charlie never loses his moral compass. books? He’s a solid, honest lawman, through and through. In that way, he’s the constant T.J.P.: Not close at all. The Mexican Army force of good in the series. and Navy can’t even get close to them. But they publicize themselves rather S. MAG.: Why conclude the Charlie flagrantly and they commit acts Hood series now? of soaring public brutality in order to be feared and obeyed. T.J.P: His story is finished. I’m ready to Mexican drug cartels don’t go find the next story out there that has crave anonymity like our North my name on it. I’ve never seen myself as American mafia. They crave a longtime series writer and it was very fame. They’re not hard to keep challenging and surprising and exciting up with. Read my novel, “The to do six books on one guy. My wife Jaguar.” It’s about all that. always says, ‘leave the party when you’re having fun.’ There’s an element of that S. MAG.: What scares T. Jefferson here. There is also my own curiosity and Parker? desire to see what lies around the corner. T.J.P.: Drought. Drones. Writing the first sentence of my S. MAG.: Within “The Famous and The Dead,” which next story. character do you feel had a bigger voice than you originally thought? S. MAG.: What is on your DVR right now?

T.J.P.: Mary Kate, for sure. And also, Bradley looms large. In T.J.P.: Nothing. Too many good books to read. a funny way, Bradley’s mother, Suzanne Jones—aka Allison Murrieta—haunts this volume loudly. She’s still very much her S. MAG.: What is next for T. Jefferson Parker? son’s mind, and she’s got a permanent place in Charlie Hood’s heart. T.J.P.: I don’t know!

S. MAG.: Is there a sentence or scene in “The Famous and We would like to thank T. Jefferson Parker for the The Dead” that you feel captures the essence of the book? interview and encourage all fans to check out his website to find out a lot more about his work at: http://www. T.J.P.: In the opening scene of “The Famous and the Dead,” a tjeffersonparker.com. ■ devil gives a madman an automatic pistol and tells the madman

SuspenseMagazine.com 81 “THE ANGEL OF HORROR CREATES A WORLD SO TERRIFYING AND BELIEVABLE ARDENT ATHEISTS WILL FALL TO THEIR KNEES AND BEG GOD FOR SALVATION.” �S.L. �ENEAR AWARD�WINNING A�THOR OF “DEADSTICK DAWN” By Thomas Scopel fter an exhausting search consisting of many friends of friends, each subsequent connection growing more and more gothic, I finally tracked down someone close enough to the Count that could get a message to him. All I am at liberty to say is that she too had pointed fangs, along with Aa look of hunger in her eyes, making me feel that I was certain to end up a few quarts short. Gladly, my neck remained unscathed as she, through a hissing voice, promised to deliver my request and get back to me with an answer by week’s end. What I didn’t expect was to awaken during the small hours with those same famished eyes leering down at me in my bed two days later. While she continued to gaze at me as though I were a meal, she simply handed me a rolled-up parchment tied with a red ribbon before disappearing into the night. The location selected for the interview was at the end of a long wooden pier, at a bench overlooking the ocean. It was a place that, at 11 p.m., typically had fishermen, lovers strolling hand in hand, and the occasional wino carrying a tilted bottle of Ripple in a rumpled paper bag sporadically milling about. However, I hadn’t selected this location on a whim. While I wasn’t completely sure that the Hollywood cliché of vampires having a fear of water held any truth, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. With the bench being only a few feet from the pier’s edge, if the need arose, the opportunity to quickly clamber over the railing and land in the safety of the choppy surf below was an added security measure. The Count’s reply, in meticulous old English lettering, was just as cordial. He accepted with one stipulation; that the questioning refrain from mentioning Bella and Edward. This seemed reasonable enough. I hadn’t considered any such questions (at least not until he had mentioned it, and those were limited to that baby thing). Two days prior, I started feeling more and more apprehensive, entertaining thoughts of garlic necklaces and wooden stakes; even pondering whether to try to pass the scent off as just having eaten Italian. On second thought, the word eaten would probably be a bad choice and I decided to just wear a cross necklace on a short chain instead. That always worked, at least in the movies. The night came and it was darker than usual, with an overcast hiding all but a small portion of the full moon’s light from passing through. I waited in the damp stillness, watching a thick mist floating over the water and listening to the crashing waves underneath. There were no lovers or fishermen or drunks, and I found myself completely alone and vulnerable. Through fear-laced jerky movements, my head and eyes hunted the darkness for this elusive vampire. I peered up at the hazy moon, just for a moment, and when my eyes lowered he was sitting beside me. That notion of elusion by water suddenly seemed all for naught, for he had just proven that I probably wouldn’t have even make it to the edge. Grinning at me, with

SuspenseMagazine.com 83 eyes offering a quick red flash before going back to some sense of normalcy and glistening fangs digging into his lower lip, he spoke.

Count Dracula (Dracula): Gould Evening.

Through a thick accent, but with distinguishable wording, it was clear that this undead person was most intelligent. He was acutely aware, with ego vividly beaming through. But no black cape.

Dracula: Allow me to put you at ease. While I must admit you look tantalizing, I will not drain you; leave you lie like some deflated balloon left behind by a bored child. The world would be deprived of our conversation. Frankly, you are the first to have such an inquiry and I admire that. Fortunately for you, only that alone is what will save your life this fine evening. When I originally read your letter, I viewed it as a jest, a trick if you will, concocted by an ancestor of Van Helsing as a ploy to bring me into the open. However, Lacy, that was her name, assured me that you had quite serious intent. Only then did I decide to converse. Being the first time I had actually written in centuries, for that I convey deepest gratitude.

Suddenly, I was thinking this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. And as fear fled, the questions began to flow.

Thomas Scopel (T.S.): Well, Mr. Count, Hollywood has depicted you in various ways. How accurate would you say these accounts are?

Dracula: For the largest part, most come close. I do subsist on blood, but rarely will I rip or shred a neck apart. To do so is much loss and waste; I shall leave that aspect to the werewolves. I do prefer the jugular vein. It offers easy access and until the person’s heart stops, continues to pump enough to be fulfilling. While I will not divulge my weaknesses, rest assured, Hollywood only has part of it right. The stake is one of them, which lends to the inquiry as to how you might fare in such an onslaught. Understand? (I nodded in agreement. After all, never having considered anything other than emotion impaling my heart, I couldn’t deny that death would be the outcome had it been a physical object instead). As far as those Lee or Lugosi fellows are concerned, Lee’s eyes are more accurate, while Lugosi’s gothic appearance is more appropriate.

T.S.: Since you’ve mentioned werewolves, is there actually a feud between them and vampires?

Dracula: Ah…the werewolves. They have been around almost as long as we vampires have and most of my kind view them as despicable; a scourge of the underworld. This view is primarily due to their vicious disposition. They appear unsophisticated, having no class, especially when they kill simply for the sake of killing. We vampires hold that with the utmost disregard. Typically, we avoid one another. However, much like your egotistical, fabled Old West gunfighters harnessing their perceived invincibility by entering a town looking for the fastest draw, one tends to oversteps their bounds and one of my own will be killed. While tending to lean more toward a vendetta as opposed to a feud, their elders are fully aware of consequences for the rogue, with each side remaining clear until resolution…or death if you will. But to simply answer your question, as far as any ongoing feud is concerned, there is typically none to speak of and upon meeting, we tend to avoid and go our separate ways.

T.S.: I often wondered about the mirrors. Is it true that you cast no reflection?

Dracula: Yes, with mirrors, that much is true. But a camera would still capture my portrait...if I allowed it. Technological advances in the advent of street cameras force awareness, attempting to limit prowling grounds. Of course, is anyone truly attentive enough or concerned with the occasional cluster of fog or mist passing through? I should say not.

T.S.: For security reasons I won’t ask where you live, but I would like to know whether you actually sleep in a coffin or not?

Suspense Magazine April 2013 / Vol. 046 84 Dracula: The coffin, eh? That too is another Hollywood misconception, but one I fully comprehend. Death, in all reality, is a terrifying prospect for you humans, wouldn’t you say? Basically, Hollywood horror tales are made with intent to scare. What better way to terrify than to include associated items? When it comes to my rest, I am quite content anywhere, provided the prospect at being caught is nil and it is out of direct sunlight. A cave or mine; an old deserted house; plenty of damp basements; I’ve slept in them all. The oddest was a rotted shell of a van left to fade away in the desert. Fortunately, both rear windows were heavily tinted and still intact.

T.S.: Do you really fly?

Without a word and with eyes piercing mine, remaining cross-legged and maintaining the seated position, he floated up off the bench, hovered for a few moments, and slowly came back down.

T.S.: Have you always had a penchant for human blood?

Dracula: Not always, but it is the tastiest. My appetite is considerable. Small animals, while I don’t condemn their nourishment, leave me lingering for more and force me to hunt over and over again. As far as deer are concerned—and let me reiterate my stance that this is the nearest I’ll get to that Bella movie thing— leave a lot to be desired. While fully nourishing, they tend to taste like a blend of stale nature. Of course, I’m not beyond snatching a doe from time to time, when I have to, but I prefer human as opposed.

While I suppose I should have considered whether or not his evening meal had been completed before asking that question, it appeared far too late now, as hungry eyes took on a deep redness that was nothing less than horrifying. Suddenly, I found myself wondering whether his need for blood was comparable to that of an alcoholic needing a drink or a drug addict needing a fix. Regardless of his earlier assurances, worry invaded as he increasingly looked at me much like the coyote does the roadrunner, without the plate of course, and I cut the interview short using the same excuse that I had with Frankenstein; that my editor was unforgiving and expecting the piece by dawn’s light. Thanking him, I abruptly stood up, turned and began walking away. As pace unconsciously sped up, I had that undeniable feeling of being swooped down upon. I glanced back at the bench and he was gone. But that did little to eliminate the sudden fear. On the way home, remaining diligently under the streetlights and repeatedly glancing above, I found myself wishing that the interview had been longer and that I had the forethought to ask better questions. By the time I was plopped down in front of the computer ready to bang away, I had already taken under advisement his subtle, yet warning words concerning the werewolves. But, I still didn’t think it would stop me from seeking one out. It did, however, cause me to ponder whether to have a freshly harvested, bloody beef heart on my person if and when I did. ■

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